


What I Would Tell You

by Smittenwithdaydreams



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Anal, Blow Job, Body Worship, Care taking/giving, Companions Geralt/Jaskier, First Time Sex, Friends Geralt/Jaskier, Handholding During Sex, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Musical Jaskier, Praise Kink, Roach does what she likes, Roach is opinionated, Slice of Life Aspects, Swearing, Sword training Jaskier, Trust, bed sharing, canon-divergence, partially clothed make out, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smittenwithdaydreams/pseuds/Smittenwithdaydreams
Summary: Jaskier is attacked and requires immediate aid of a Healer. Geralt, faced with the prospect of losing the Bard, reflects on the feelings he's been burying for so long. / Geralt encounters a bad-luck Fey, Jaskier is cornered, a Doppler appears - and Jaskier and Geralt experience a lot of MomentsTM.Beta'd by the lovely @youthwillnotendure
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35
Collections: Fandom 5K 2020





	What I Would Tell You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> The mature content in this story mostly consists of swearing. However, there is descriptive violence, injury, and in part two; sexual content. What I Would Tell You has been beta'd by @youthwillnotendure - and was written for @the_plaid_slytherin for Fandom 5K 2020. In all my years of fan-fiction writing, this is the first fic I've ever completed - I hope you enjoy it.

_Part One_

_Summer, 1253_

The tranquil sun was setting slowly in the west, stretching its purple and pink incandescence out from the horizon across the cloudless sky. There was a warm breeze resting in the air, barely bristling the harmonious nature throughout the wood. The forest was peacefully quiet, one of the few sounds emitted was from the bankside of a serene lake; a lute expertly played, joined with the soft words of a lullaby.

Jaskier was lounging across the base of a tree, its roots arched in an almost armchair fashion, securing him from slipping down onto his back. He wore a loose white shirt, untucked and stained by the tall summer grass he’d laid in the day before. His bare tan legs showed soft copper hairs stood every which way to allow heat to escape, his trousers folded up nearby with his boots for it was much too warm to wear them. Every few minutes, the breeze tousled his fringe and he raked it back with his fingers to no avail for it fell where it wanted. He’d closed his eyes a while ago, the words on his lips getting quieter the more relaxed he became, and he knew he’d fall asleep soon; it was just that kind of afternoon.

Less than forty feet away, Geralt stood washing down Roach with a pail of water and a rag. The horse nuzzled him whenever it got the chance and Geralt had to suppress the smile that wanted to surface every time. He had a reputation, after all. He was bare chested in the sunshine, his pale skin illuminated, matching hues of his hair. Unlike his human companion, though he loathed calling him that, Geralt’s skin didn’t tan no matter how long he stood bare beneath the harshest of suns. It didn’t bother him, even when Jaskier commented on it. His black trousers clung to his waist, but he had _enough sense_ to also be barefoot; reducing his temperature, only because Jaskier called him sweaty a few days ago and tried to rub lavender on his arm.

_“It’s to make you smell nice, Geralt.”_

_“If you don’t like it, you can leave.”_

_“Worry not, our friendship can withstand your odour.”_

_“Hmm.”_

It took less than twenty minutes for him to finish Roach’s bath, and he washed his hands by the lake afterwards. While he was there, he refilled the pail and took it over to Jaskier, kicking the Bard awake.

“Drink some water,” he instructed after Jaskier’s initial grunt of protest. “We’ll be moving on in an hour, there’s no game nearby.” Jaskier stretched and yawned loudly, displeasing Geralt’s nerves but the Witcher kept his thoughts to himself. He stared down at the Bard’s sleepy face and knew he’d have better luck leaving the man by the lake and returning later with dinner, but Jaskier would complain – again – about lack of muse. Geralt hadn’t crossed paths with a monster in nearly a week and Jaskier found that to be a personal injustice to his songwriting.

_“How awful it is that you should have to use an ounce of imagination.”_

_“I’ll have you know all my ballads are born of imagination. Should I sing just of you, it would be reduced to one syllable words and grunts.”_

_“The nation's punters would surely be devastated by your lack of…melodies.”_

_“I’m glad you agree, Geralt.”_

“Unless, you’d rather stay behind,” he muttered. This was enough to open the Bard’s eyes wider and he pushed himself up from the tree.

“Absolutely not,” he said, indignantly. “I wouldn’t put it past you to hunt a monster without me, and you know I need content for my ballads, Geralt.” Geralt shot him a stony look but the affronting effect he aimed for was always lost on Jaskier. The Bard was simply immune to his bad moods, as well as his gift to drive others away. It was more of a curse, really, but Geralt admitted – although only to himself – that over the years, he’d become accustomed to travelling with Jaskier and he wouldn’t want to truly drive the man away. There were months when they saw nought of one another, and it was during these nights that Geralt felt… not quite right, like there was an absence in the way of purpose. He elected to ignore that they coincided with the lack of Jaskier’s whinging and unrelenting singing, but was aware he found odd comfort in travelling with another.

Geralt decided not to relive the same conversation.

“Then stop lazing around and put on some trousers.” Geralt glanced his way, his gaze drawn immediately to that of Jaskier’s well-endowed crotch. The Bard had enough sense to wear undergarments but they were distractingly thin and showed much too much of the Bard’s privates; Geralt had enough control to avert his eyes but, Circe, it was _distracting_.

This wasn’t the first time Geralt’s gaze had been drawn to the Bard’s nether regions, or that said regions had elicited a reaction in him. Many years ago, when Jaskier was barely 24, he’d both gifted and cursed Geralt with an unforgettable memory. The Bard still seemed as every bit the teenager he’d been when they’d met. It was summer then too, though not nearly as hot, and Geralt hadn’t trusted Jaskier’s discretion enough to take off his shirt. He refused to admit his hesitation was anything to do with fear; fear of the Bard’s opinion. He’d told Jaskier that he merely couldn’t be bothered answering questions about the scars that riddled his body. But Jaskier, ever relentless, had assumed it was Geralt’s embarrassment that kept him from shedding his clothes in the other man’s company, and figured the best way for them to get over any shyness was for Jaskier to simply take the plunge first.

Geralt had gone to feed Roach her supper and when he returned to the camp, he was unpleasantly surprised to find Jaskier lying by the dying fire, completely naked. It’d taken less than ten minutes of denial and threats for Jaskier to cover up, and though Geralt had managed to avert his gaze under Jaskier’s, he’d gotten enough of a view to commit the size of Jaskier’s cock to memory.

He struggled with the morality of his thoughts as he lay under the stars, trying to fall asleep. Jaskier was a few feet away, snoring, but Geralt was frustrated. Too frustrated. Being a Witcher gave him more control over certain areas of his body, but sometimes a thought was just too demanding. And one thought led to another, and a fantasy was born. He grunted and rolled onto his side, squeezing his eyes closed and refusing to allow himself the pleasure. Jaskier was young, far too young, and it was wrong for him to imagine any such things about the young man – especially when he was sleeping so close by.

He swallowed audibly and after a few more minutes of reciting herbs and flowers to himself, he fell back and sighed. A quick glance at Jaskier placated a nerve or two, and he listened to the Bard’s soft breathing for a few minutes while reassuring himself that Jaskier wouldn’t wake, and he would never know of anything Geralt was about to think or do. He let out a slow breath and trailed his right hand along his chest, lower and lower, until it got to the fastening of his trousers. He unlaced them and shifted the fabric until he could comfortably pull his semi-hard cock from confinement. A slight breeze enticed him and a shiver ran up his spine. He stroked himself slowly as he thought back to his afternoon, and he allowed himself to replay the happenings a _little_ differently.

_“Evening, Geralt,” Jaskier said, breezily. He was lying in the grass on his side, one hand holding up his head, one leg arched against the other; showcasing his genitals without a care in the world. Geralt approached silently and kneeled down in front of the Bard, eyes piercing as he surveyed the length of Jaskier’s body. “See something you like?” Jaskier asked, his eyes gentle and innocent but his voice flirtatious. Geralt growled low in his chest and pushed Jaskier back so that he could straddle his hips._

Geralt clenched his buttocks as a surge of arousal spiked from his groin, twisting his gut. He huffed out a groan, his cock now painfully hard. Circe, he wanted to thrust into Jaskier’s inevitable tight arsehole.

_“You’re a tease, Bard,” Geralt scolded, trailing his fingers over Jaskier’s flushing chest. He captured one of his nipples within his thumb and forefinger and squeezed gently, pleased by how it hardened in tandem with Jaskier’s cock which he could now feel pressing against his arse._

_“Only for you, Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, his chest falling and rising rapidly._

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath and moved his left arm above his head so he could rest on it, his legs drawing up to give him a better grip. His fantasy altered ever so slightly.

_Geralt was now naked, all except for the wolf pendant that he continued to wear around his neck. He was lower down the Bard’s figure now, Jaskier’s thighs on either side of his waist as his prick ploughed in and out of Jaskier’s arse. They were both panting for breath; Jaskier’s face a marvellous shade of red and sweating as Geralt thrust ruthlessly in order to satisfy his desire._

His hand worked his cock as quickly as he could handle, his hips meeting it in time with his imagined thrusts, and his mouth fell open as whispered gasps escaped his lungs. Within minutes, his balls were throbbing and a tingling sensation was spreading from his groin, running up the curve of his spine. His heart was racing, pulse points behind his ears pounding, thrumming him further and further into oblivion, until a moan escaped his throat, and then he was coming hard, his cum soaking into his shirt in rapid spurts. He shuddered as every muscle in his body felt weighted and weak. In seconds, the endorphins hit and he saw stars behind his eyelids, a numbness zapping every inch on his body until he felt as though he could simply dissolve into sleep.

He’d awoken the next morning feeling stiff, as if his limbs had locked into place and tightened there. He, thankfully, had enough time to clean himself up, change his shirt and scold himself into shame before Jaskier roused. Seeing the dopey expression on the young man’s face as he asked what Geralt had brought him for breakfast was enough to drown Geralt in guilt. He vowed he would never let himself get carried away like that again, it was wrong of him to use Jaskier in such a way, especially since the man was scarcely in his adulthood.

It was true enough that Jaskier was much older now, as was he, but Geralt still felt as though such thoughts were a breach of their friendship. As distracting as Jaskier could be, he would stay true to his vow, and if he needed to visit a certain establishment to relieve his frustrations in the next city…well, that was nobody’s business.

“It’s too hot,” Jaskier whined, and he actually pouted, hands on hips. Geralt found childlike Jaskier to be the most annoying version and had to hold his breath for ten seconds before he pulled on his shirt.

“It’s not up for discussion,” he said, and clenched his jaw at Jaskier’s petulant sigh. Fortunately, for Geralt’s sanity and Jaskier’s health, the Bard got dressed.

“I’m going to sweat,” Jaskier grumbled, “ _and_ I have to walk.” Geralt was too hot and tired himself to put up with Jaskier’s pathetic mumbling, so he silently saddled Roach and quietly apologised to her before addressing Jaskier.

“You’ll ride on Roach today,” he said and Jaskier was so surprised, he paused, balanced on one leg while trying to pull his boot on; his mouth agape as he looked at Geralt. They regarded one another, Geralt altogether too serious and Jaskier slowly beginning to smile.

“Good,” he said. “It’s about time you let me in the saddle.” Geralt rolled his eyes but said nothing.

They had been sauntering through the forest, following the lake’s edge, for almost an hour and not only was Jaskier starving but he was bored too. He thought riding on Roach would have given the tediousness of hunting a more active experience but it hadn’t. Geralt had grown tired of his huffing and had walked off ahead, his sword drawn as he examined the Earth around them. He had a guttural feeling that something wasn’t right but he had yet to voice it to Jaskier, knowing the Bard would say something moronic like ‘We’re still hungry, that’s not right’ or something equally self-absorbed and irritating.

Jaskier dug his heels into Roach’s side, wary of hurting her but wishing she would move faster. Roach snorted but made no attempt to quicken her pace, so Jaskier resorted to hunching over and patting her mane.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to go for a run?” He asked her and bounced his heels against her stomach again, she shook her head and whinnied in warning so Jaskier gave up trying to persuade her. He should have known this was Geralt’s way of keeping him behind. Fortunately, having a seat gave him more opportunity to play his lute so he pulled it from his back and strummed it. He’d barely managed three chords when something shot up out of the water on his right hand side and sank its claws into Jaskier’s arm, he was so shocked he didn’t even yell, and the next thing he knew he was fighting for breath beneath the lake’s surface.

Roach kicked up onto her back two legs and whinnied again, loudly this time, to alert Geralt to the danger. Geralt, who had been crouched down by a rough trail of mud, turned on his heel. He should have known something would happen, should have warned the insufferable human that a danger was present. When he saw the Bard’s absence from Roach’s back, he looked around, his head snapping from side to side. Ripples in the water grabbed his attention and he began to run again, straight into the river which only came up to his elbows. He couldn’t attack beneath the water without being able to see the creature, lest he hit Jaskier instead, but the beast was moving. Geralt fell down into the water, his eyes wide against the current, burning with the need to see Jaskier was fine, that Geralt wasn’t about to lose the Bard, no matter how vexatious he could be.

He spotted the thrashing of Jaskier’s limbs surrounded by blood and his heart beat painfully in his chest. Geralt stood and leapt forward, slamming into the space beside Jaskier and it took him seconds to pry the creatures’ claws from the Bard’s torso. Jaskier continued to panic, his arms cutting through the water as he tried to defend himself and propel himself up onto his feet. There were four creatures, all of which had been latched onto Jaskier to keep him under water, their strength too little to take on a human alone.

Two of the Drowners turned their attention to Geralt and lurched at him. Their vision was better under the water and their slimy bodies gave them an agile advantage, but Geralt had experience with the slippery bastards. He grabbed one by its neck in one swift motion and drove his silver sword straight through, splitting it from collar to naval, its blood polluting the water and clouding his vision as the body started drifting with the current. The other Drowner had looped around and stabbed one set of claws into Geralt’s shoulder, the other set into his neck. He jerked round, reaching over his shoulder to grab the Drowners’ head with one hand and yanked it forward; pulling it from the water as he stood, emerging loudly from the lake. The Drowner screeched as it was torn from his back and pulled down onto the silver blade, its lifeless body discarded into the water just as quickly.

Hearing a shriek, Geralt snapped back in Jaskier’s direction to see the two other Drowners still shredding at the Bard’s skin, but they were unable to keep him fully beneath the water now that there were only two of them. Geralt waded through the lake as quickly as he could and grabbed one, then the other, quickly ceasing their lives before he grabbed Jaskier by the waist. The Bard clung to him, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, and Geralt carried him from the discoloured water. In a few long strides, Geralt had Jaskier safely away from the lake and laid him on the slight slope of the embankment. It was obvious to him that Jaskier was in shock.

“Deep breaths, Bard,” Geralt said, swiping Jaskier’s wet fringe from his eyes. “With me, breath in,” one, two, three, four, “and out,” one, two, three, four. He repeated this seven times with Jaskier until he was confident the Bard could continue to do it on his own. He needed to stop the bleeding from Jaskier’s wounds, the claw marks deep across his arms, chest, and no doubt, his back too. His hands trembled as a sob broke through Jaskier’s breathing, but he couldn’t waste time trying to comfort the man, not while he bled so quickly. He stood, looking for Roach, missing the way Jaskier’s terrified arms reached for him, and the horse instinctively met his side. “I need to stop the bleeding,” he explained to Jaskier as he pulled a makeshift first aid kit from the saddle bag, essential equipment for life as a Witcher.

Unfortunately, his kit had been created with him in mind and he bled far less than a human. It was also running low on supply. “Fuck,” he grunted as he realised he didn’t have nearly enough bandages. He pulled off his shirt and tore the entire garment into strips, before removing Jaskier’s reddening shirt and wrapping as much of the material strips around as much of Jaskier as he could. The arms were the easiest but he was struggling to accommodate the cuts in Jaskier’s chest and back. He did his best, taping edges to Jaskier’s unbroken skin and then wrapping the wet and bloody shirt back around the now shivering Bard. “We have to get you to a Healer.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier wheezed, his eyes bloodshot and leaking. Whatever it was Jaskier had to say, it would have to wait. Geralt scooped the human back up into his arms and hoisted him up into the saddle before stepping up into Roach’s stirrups and swinging his leg around, taking what was left of the space behind Jaskier. He reached for Roach’s reins and she responded quickly, trotting up the rest of the embankment and breaking out into a run as the trail opened up. Geralt kept one arm firmly around Jaskier’s waist, pinning the bleeding man to his bare chest, his face set in determination. His heart was beating noticeably faster and he felt sick, worsened by Roach’s trot and the way Jaskier was growing limp in his hold. He wanted to reassure the Bard that everything would be alright, apologise for not being there to protect him, but Jaskier’s head lolled forwards as he fell into unconsciousness and Geralt’s throat was thick with concern he couldn’t vocalise. So he told himself everything would be alright and held Jaskier tighter.

The sky was dimly lit as Roach carried her riders across the threshold of Vizima. The guards at Maribor Gate gave him directions to the nearest Healer, and Geralt had promised to return with payment once Jaskier was stable. The streets were bare as night approached, save for a few drunkards stumbling home, and Roach navigated the streets with ease. As soon as Geralt spotted the tell-tale sign of the Healer’s practice, he brought Roach to a stop and slid off of her back before easing Jaskier down.

The Bard’s eyes were closed and his head fell back as Geralt carried him to the door. He kicked at it six times before he heard movement, the embittered murmurs of a man behind it as he unlocked the door. The Healer was elderly man, bony beneath his nightclothes, and he had a few grey tufts of hair stuck out on either side of his head. His eyes widened at the sight of Jaskier’s body, all displeased remarks erased from his tongue in an instant. He stepped back and Geralt moved inside, passed the Healer, and into the room where he saw a table he could lay Jaskier upon.

“What happened?” The Healer asked, at his side.

“Drowners,” Geralt said. “I’ve bound his wounds with strips of cloth and some bandages.” The Healer was perceptive enough to realise the strips of cloth were that of Geralt’s shirt.

“Take off his shirt,” he said, and moved away from the table. He collected jars, clean rags, bandages, and a dark wooden box, all of which he placed above Jaskier’s head on the table while Geralt sat the unconscious Bard up and removed his shirt. “How long ago-?”

“An hour at least,” Geralt interrupted. The Healer set to removing a bandage on Jaskier’s chest to inspect the depth of the cut and immediately he replaced it, blood pooling in the wound.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the Healer said, his voice taking on a grave tone that had Geralt’s patience stretched. “He’ll need more and quickly.”

“Take mine,” Geralt said without hesitation and the Healer looked up in surprise, his mind racing at the possibility. He then shook himself out of the opportunity to trial a Witcher’s blood; he had never seen what happened to a human should they receive mutated blood, though he’d often wondered of the effects and if the human body would accept the foreign cells. But the risk was too high and he wasn’t about to endanger the bleeding man’s life further.

“It’s too risky, Witcher,” the Healer replied, shaking his head slowly. Geralt wasn’t sure how he felt about the Healer or how the Healer felt about Witchers, would he let Jaskier die as some sort of prejudiced defiance? “There’s a Sorcerer staying at the Inn down the street, Ludwik. Tell him you need Healing Brew.” Geralt took a quick look at Jaskier’s face, committing it to memory, before he fled from the Healer’s home. He stopped by Roach to retrieve his only other shirt from her saddle bag and donned it. Thankfully, his trousers had dried on the ride though now Geralt’s legs felt somewhat stiff and uncomfortable, not enough to defer him from his purpose though. He quickly hitched Roach up to the nearest post and then sprinted down the street to the Inn. The Inn’s jovial atmosphere was garish upon his entry and Geralt was as pleased as he could be, given the situation, that the occupants all fell into silence as he crossed over to the bar.

“I need the Sorcerer,” Geralt said quickly and with an expression that conveyed he was in no mood to explain anything more. The barman still assessed him with curiosity, an unhurriable set to his hunched shoulders as he continued to clean a mug.

“Upstairs, fourth door on the right,” he exhaled. Geralt took the stairs two at a time and approached the door, determined. He had not crossed paths with Ludwik before, nor had he heard of the Sorcerer, and he hoped their meeting would not be one he would regret. Having an infamous nature never served him well, no matter how untrue it was. He knocked on the door and listened. Less than a minute later, the door was opened by a man in a dark green robe.

“A Witcher? What business could I possibly have with the likes of you?” He asked, his tone mildly surprised though weighed heavily with distrust.

“I’ve come for a Healing Brew,” Geralt told him. Ludwik’s brows rose in further surprise and he stood back, gesturing for Geralt to step inside so he did, and shut the door lest the inn occupants be listening at the foot of the stairs.“ A man…my friend, he was injured by Drowners. He’s lost a lot of blood, too much blood.” While he spoke, Ludwik crossed the room towards a dresser and opened the middle drawer.

“You best get him to a Healer,” Ludwik said, his distrust slowly easing as he took Geralt’s tone of sincerity to be the truth. He took a roll of vials out of the drawer and unfolded it atop the dresser, choosing a specific one filled with a plum coloured syrup.

“I have,” Geralt said. “He sent me.”

“Kazimierz?” Ludwik asked, though he cared little for Geralt’s answer. He’d dealt with many Healers during his stay in the city. He took the vial over to Geralt and held it out to him. Just as Geralt was about to take it, Ludwik pulled it back. “You’ll owe me, Witcher,” he warned and then held it out again, giving Geralt the choice to accept his terms or leave. Geralt glared but said nothing as he snatched the vial and exited the room, unable to spare any time investigating said favour the Sorcerer had bargained his friend’s life for.

The sun was at its highest point, bleating relentlessly over the bustling city, when Geralt woke. The Healer, Kazimierz, had provided his only spare room for Jaskier to sleep in while he recovered. Geralt, unable to leave the Bard’s side, had slept on the floor by the window. Even at night, the warmth had been discomforting and Geralt had been unable to sleep. Jaskier was still and silent underneath the bedlinen, his usual snore alarmingly absent. Geralt had stood over him for nearly forty minutes, waiting for proof that the Healing Brew was working, but nothing had changed. He itched for something useful to do but the Healer had no work and refused his attempt at cleaning up Jaskier’s blood.

“Watch over your friend, dear Witcher,” he’d said with a soft tone and knowing look as he hung Jaskier’s clothes out to dry. Geralt had tried to rouse Jaskier at one point near midnight, eager for a response, even if it was as simple as a change in breathing but it was to no avail. At two, he’d sat by the foot of the bed and closed his eyes.

It was said on the mouths and in the minds of many that Witcher’s were incapable of feeling but they were wrong. Geralt wished he was incapable, wished he was as stoic in his gut as he was on his face. Ever since he’d been left to the Witchers and trained in Kaer Morhen, Geralt had been taught the dangers of emotion. They had little place in his life for he couldn’t live the way humans did, couldn’t settle down and love the way families did, couldn’t endanger another with sentiments. And it had rarely bothered him. He knew his trade and he did it well, he was still alive, wasn’t he? Some respected him, some didn’t; as long as he got paid, he couldn’t care less.

But that wasn’t the case anymore, was it? It hadn’t been for a while. He and Jaskier had known one another for 13 years, and in that time, Geralt had come to care about the Bard, care about his opinions – even if he often dismissed them for being unhelpful or unasked for. He cared about his well-being, he often found himself wondering if his companion was eating enough, drinking enough, getting enough sleep. It was nonsensical; Jaskier was a grown man, fully capable of looking after himself when he wasn’t being attacked by monsters…monsters he wouldn’t be within reach of if he wasn’t travelling with a Witcher. But the blame couldn’t be all his, could it? Jaskier had chosen time and time again to travel with him, for muse and adventure, knowing the risks. It wasn’t the humans’ fault Geralt had grown to care for him. Because he had, hadn’t he?

He noticed Jaskier’s absence in the time they spent apart, and he hated it. It made him angry at himself for growing accustomed to another, but that never stopped him from eventually passing through a town he knew Jaskier was in, knowing the Bard couldn’t resist the lure of monsters. Geralt had told himself at the time that he missed having another person to listen to and sleep by, but he could admit to himself while Jaskier lay in bed barely alive, that it wasn’t simply another person he missed but the Bard. Jaskier’s chatter and jokes, his comments and fussing, the way he needed to sleep on his back despite it being the one position he snored in. He was always moaning about herb based soups and having to wash in streams, but continued to travel with Geralt anyway and the Witcher wanted it to mean something. But what? He knew he was attracted to Jaskier – even if his vow kept him from acting on it. And he knew he missed the man when he was gone, but did he really want more with Jaskier or did he want a tiny bit of security? Was Jaskier a piece of the life that was taken from him? And even if the Bard reciprocated his wanting, what could they be? Any relationship would be looked down upon. Who would want to invite a Witcher’s lover to sing at their festivities? Unless, of course, they had ill intentions…and that was another thing. There were many out there that might take revenge on Geralt or Witchers as a whole by targeting Jaskier, knowing it would hurt Geralt. It was too dangerous.

Geralt huffed at himself, he was making so many assumptions on Jaskier’s part. The Bard liked to serenade ladies, seduce them and leave them wanting more. He revelled in it, bragged about it. Jaskier had never so much as hinted at finding other men attractive, let alone wanting to bed them, and he’d never attempted to flirt with Geralt the way he did with the fairer sex. No, Jaskier wasn’t interested, he’d never be interested, and Geralt would have to get over his silly feelings. Silly feelings that he’d let himself acknowledge only in his mind, and he’d work on demolishing once Jaskier was safely away from him, surrounded by safer company that didn’t want something impossible from him.

Geralt blinked, he felt hot and sticky, and wanted to bathe in cold water. He pushed himself up from the floor, his shirt, boots, and trousers discarded around the floorboards he’d been occupying. He looked over towards the bed and his thoughts from the previous evening chased the breath from his lungs. Looking upon Jaskier in reflection of his feelings, he found it even harder to consider his Bard might not pull through. What would he do? What could he do? A devastating anger ignited in his gut and he fought the urge to break something. This was why he didn’t make friends, why he didn’t maintain relationships. His life was dangerous, far too dangerous for most let alone a gentle man such as Jaskier. He should never have let himself become attached, never have allowed their companionship to go on for so long. Look where it had brought them.

He paced forwards towards the bed and as he stared at Jaskier’s face, his glare softened into a look of upset. Jaskier continued to sleep silently, unnaturally still. His skin was pale, even against the white of his bandages, and Geralt wanted to hold him to his chest until Jaskier woke, regenerated and healthy. And then what? What would he say? What would he do? The rational part of him, the part he considered to be good told him he should leave Jaskier well enough alone once the Bard was stable. That would be the noble thing to do, the only option that kept Jaskier from harm the likes of this again. But Geralt wanted to be selfish, he wanted to keep Jaskier, to hear his humming, his laughter, his ballads. He wanted to care for him in any way, in all ways. He wanted to touch him, how he’d missed so many opportunities to feel Jaskier’s skin, to run his fingers through the golden curls of his hair. Geralt swallowed audibly and looked away. His vow came back to mind and his gut twisted in a way he was unused to and detested. Even now he was aware of how deep his affections for Jaskier ran, he still felt guilty at the thought of wanting Jaskier, like he was somehow hurting his friend more, especially as Jaskier lay before him in such poor health. What was wrong with him?

Fortunately, he heard sounds from the stairwell and the glimmer of improper fantasy seeped from the forefront of his mind. Kazimierz tapped on the door quietly and entered, carrying a tray in one hand which he set down on the bedside table.

“Good day to you, Geralt,” he said in a cheerful tone, surprising Geralt for a moment before he glowered at the old man.

“Is it?” He asked, bitterly. Kazimierz was unfazed by Geralt’s demeanour, reminding Geralt of Jaskier’s extraordinary indifference to his bad moods, and the Witcher watched as the Healer picked up a jar of herbs and shook it.

“Jaskier’s wounds will need a proper cleansing so I’ve prepared a mixture of herbs with healing and cleansing properties,” he explained, “they’re to be added to a bath once he’s come around.” A cynical voice in Geralt’s head corrected Kazimierz’s _once_ with an ‘if’ and he grimaced. “I can administer the young man’s bath if you’re so opposed,” Kazimierz added, misunderstanding the look of displeasure on Geralt’s face. Geralt paused for a moment, unsure as to whether he should set the Healer right or if avoiding a naked Jaskier was wiser. A glance at Jaskier’s face and he folded, guilt lashing him for once again considering Jaskier in such a way while the Bard was so vulnerable.

“I can help him bathe,” Geralt said resolutely. “But I don’t share your confidence in it being soon. He’s much too pale.”

“That’s to be expected,” Kazimierz replied. “His body will be working hard to make up for what he lost. But he’s still alive and I reckon we can bring him round with the smell of something good.” He picked up another jar from his tray, this one black and looked to be more expensive than glass. Uncorked, Geralt could immediately smell the confinements: soup. He internally scoffed at how much Jaskier had complained about soup in the past few weeks and yet now it could be the medicine to bring him out of his stupor. Kazimierz held the flask over Jaskier, near enough his nose, and the both of them waited. After a long minute, Geralt sighed. “Are you not a man of patience? What about all that hunting you do?”

“Hunting involves doing, right now we’re practically idle and this… soup is not working.” Geralt folded his arms, containing the words he wished to say in frustration. As if only to prove him wrong, Jaskier chose this moment to prove he was still alive – beyond breathing, that is.

“Sumnungoop,” he gurgled, barely audible. He barely moved at all and if they hadn’t been witness to his lips twitching as the sound emitted from his throat, Geralt would have disbelieved it’d been Jaskier to make it.

“Soup, works every time,” Kazimierz said with a smug smile at Geralt’s expense. He used his free hand to gently touch Jaskier’s forehead and was about to speak when Geralt swiftly moved around the bed to kneel at Jaskier’s bedbound height.

“Jaskier, can you hear me?” No response. “Jaskier?” Geralt asked again, louder this time. He reached out to touch the Bard’s hand.

“Mmgeral.”

“Jaskier, wake up,” Geralt ordered and Kazimierz tusked at him.

“Gently bring him round, Witcher,” he said with amusement. “He’s already had a tough ordeal, he doesn’t need you to yell at him.” Geralt glared at him, irritated that he was being given advice on how to speak to Jaskier from a man who knew neither of them.

“You tell ‘im,” Jaskier murmured, eyelids fluttering as he managed to speak a coherent sentence. Geralt was so relieved, he couldn’t even find it within himself to retort with something sarcastic. He squeezed Jaskier’s hand, needing the Bard to open his eyes properly, but Jaskier tried to blink a few times before giving up. He squirmed where he lay, kicking at the sheet that covered his lower half. Kazimierz chucked gently.

“If you’d like a semblance of privacy, I wouldn’t kick that off completely,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been asking Geralt to bathe Jaskier.

“Why am I sore?” He asked, scrunching his face up. Geralt let go of his hand and rose, able to finally let go of the tension in his shoulders; Jaskier would be fine, just as the Healer predicted.

“I’m afraid you encountered some Drowners by the lakeside yesterday,” Kazimierz explained and Geralt, again, felt frustrated at the man. Why was he answering? Surely it was Geralt’s place to talk to Jaskier and get him up to date. He folded his arms.

“I brought you to Vizima,” Geralt said, gruffly.

“How very kind of you, Geralt,” Jaskier smiled ever so slightly, opening his eyes ever so slightly to look up, and Geralt’s stomach clenched.

“Hmm,” he simply replied. “You got blood on Roach.”

“How beastly,” he muttered and closed his eyes again, his tone losing its usual ‘flair’ as he sounded exhausted. “I’ll have to make it up to her,” he managed to say before breaking off to yawn loudly, his jaw clicking.

“I know you’re feeling put upon, young Jaskier but you ought to eat something, and afterwards, Geralt will assist you with a bath,” Kazimierz said in a rather kind tone, it was a shame Geralt found his presence so frustrating. He reasoned with himself that he was just feeling useless but it didn’t make him feel any better. Jaskier moaned in response but didn’t otherwise complain. “Do you feel strong enough to sit up and use a spoon or shall Geralt and I-“

“I can do that,” Geralt interrupted, stepping forwards and sliding one arm around Jaskier’s waist, the other around his back and sitting the Bard up in one motion. The breath was taken from Jaskier’s lungs and his head lolled as he tried to re-orientate his mind, the sudden movement causing the room to spin. Kazimierz frowned at Geralt’s action but then a thought reoccurred to him and he let his displeasure ease out in a sigh as he folded his hands before his stomach.

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasped. “Don’t do that again.” Geralt eased his arms away, a look of pure annoyance on his features, not that Jaskier was looking at him. Instead of responding, Geralt held his hand out for the vessel of soup that Kazimierz had replaced on the tray. The Healer raised a brow at Geralt’s wordless demand before he slowly retrieved the soup and handed it over, following the exchange with another as he handed over a spoon. Geralt knelt by the bedside again, as close to Jaskier as he could without being on the bed also, he poured soup out onto the spoon and held it out to Jaskier, a little way from the Bard’s closed mouth. Jaskier regarded it suspiciously, no doubt feeling queasy and altogether not quite right, but he wasn’t about to argue with Geralt. He took the spoon in his mouth and slurped the soup down before he grimaced and turned his head away. “By the Gods, what is that?” The Healer frowned again, this time at Jaskier’s reaction, and Geralt had to hide his smile with the soup jar, his eyes downcast.

“Carrot and ginger,” Kazimierz replied. “Ginger eases nausea, it’s good for you.”

“How is it to ease my nausea if it also creates it?” Jaskier asked, his face scrunching up further at the thought of having to take another spoonful. Kazimierz sighed loudly, this time not hiding his annoyance. He paced the floor and looked out the window at the beautiful day, wondering what else he could offer Jaskier instead of ginger. The soup would be better for him than say bread but the Healer didn’t want the young man to go without food altogether.

“I suppose I could fetch you some bread instead,” Kazimierz murmured. Jaskier’s face improved at the prospect and Geralt stood, bothered that Jaskier had just made him useless again within the space of a minute.

“Some jam too would be grand,” Jaskier said, and Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Bread would be grand enough for you, you look like shit,” Geralt told him and Jaskier chuckled quietly.

“While I prepare some alternative food,” Kazimierz said, “why don’t you have a bath? The cuts on your body need to be cleaned.” Jaskier didn’t look impressed by the suggestion, he simply wanted to return to sleep. Before he could say as much, however, Kazimierz was instructing Geralt on bringing the bath through from the room next door. “I’ll send my assistant up with some hot water though I wouldn’t think you’ll want too much of it.” Jaskier nodded weakly, agreeing that he definitely didn’t wish to be warmer. Geralt left the room immediately after putting on his pants, intent on getting the bath filled as soon as possible, and to be alone with Jaskier.

By the time the bath was at an agreeable temperature, nearly an hour had passed and Jaskier had eaten a small amount of bread and slept in the meantime. Now with the medicinal herbs within the water, Geralt had to lift Jaskier from the bed and lower him gently into the tub. A simple manoeuvre he could have completed following a tough monster battle and a full day walking, but Geralt was horribly aware that he really was going to have to see and touch Jaskier vulnerable and bare, and it made the hairs on his arms stand to attention. He attempted to swallow the lump in his throat and looked over at Jaskier still lying in bed, the Bard was trying not to itch at a bandage on his left arm.

“Leave it be,” he chastised and Jaskier grumbled.

“It’s itchy,” he said.

“It’s healing,” Geralt replied, the Witcher stood and walked slowly back over to the bed where his gaze was drawn to the top edge of the bedsheet. Jaskier had pushed it down to just below his belly button, revealing the full extent of bandages securing his body. He realised, for the first time, how many scars would eventually be left across the Bard's upper body and frowned, guilt returning in tenfold. Jaskier, unable to help watching Geralt watch him, squirmed under the other man’s forlorn gaze.

“If you’re going to look at me like that, I’d rather you didn’t look at all,” he said, intending for it to sound scathing but instead he simply sounded rather sad. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, his gaze now turned away but he wasn’t sure what, so he simply closed his mouth again. “I can bathe myself, if you please,” Jaskier added, only adding to Geralt’s uncertainty. He tried to piece together something caring or at least understanding but instead, he said,

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jaskier looked ready enough to outright refuse his help again but then the moment passed and his shoulders sagged further into the bed. Geralt internally damned himself for not taking the easy way out and allowing Jaskier to win this disagreement, but he knew the Bard needed assistance and he’d much rather be the one to do it than Kazimierz. “Are you able to stand at all or shall I carry you over?” He asked, eyes returning to Jaskier’s chest but quickly flickering to the Bard’s tired pout and then to where his legs were underneath the bed sheet.

“I’ll try to…” Jaskier said, struggling to push himself up with his elbows. Geralt put out his arm to stop Jaskier from continuing.

“Don’t make this harder for yourself,” he said and reached forward to help Jaskier sit up. Jaskier gripped his arm with one hand and held onto Geralt’s shoulder with the other as he swivelled himself round and put his feet on the floor. The sheet moved with him and Geralt’s heart began to beat noticeably faster, much to his own irritation. A moment later, he’d helped Jaskier to his feet though the Bard was unable to stand alone and walked with grimaces. The sheet fell to the floor and Geralt’s eyes became fixated on Jaskier’s neck as they slowly stepped across the room towards the bath.

“Who knew it would take my near death for you to be so kind,” Jaskier joked and Geralt would have responded with something scathing if he wasn’t so preoccupied averting his gaze. He put one hand on Jaskier’s waist, planning to steady the man as he stepped over the side of the bath but Jaskier had an alternative plan, twisted and ended up leaning into Geralt, giving the Witcher an unasked for opportunity to inhale Jaskier’s hair. “Oh,” Jaskier said, “sorry, Geralt.” As he apologised, Geralt became hyper aware of how close Jaskier’s crotch was to his, and how easily he could move his hand down across the Bard’s bare arse.

“What’s your thought process here?” He asked as Jaskier pulled away, both of them conscious that Geralt’s hand still rested on Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier looked up at Geralt, his eyes soft with exertion but he wasn’t oblivious enough to miss the way Geralt’s eyes lowered to his lips as they stood barely apart. For a moment, his bewildering thoughts envisaged Geralt leaning down to kiss him but then the moment passed and Geralt was pulling away, taking his hand off of Jaskier’s waist and gesturing to the water-filled tub. Jaskier wobbled but as he turned back to the bath, unsure as to whether he was imagining the charged atmosphere in his wounded state, and lifted his arm out for Geralt to take. Geralt obliged and helped balance Jaskier as he slowly got into the tub with some difficulty, it took him only seconds to sit down in the blissful water though and soon he was lying with his head back; breathing in the fumes of the herb water.

Geralt kept his eyes trained on Jaskier’s face whenever he looked at the bathing man, his back straight as he waited for a request of assistance. Jaskier seemed content enough to simply lie in the water with his eyes closed and it wasn’t until Geralt heard the shift of breathing that he realised Jaskier was comfortable enough to fall asleep. He huffed as he reached forward and down to shake Jaskier’s shoulder, earning a blurry eyed gaze in response. He sighed.

“Try to stay awake,” he said, “you’ve nearly drowned once already.” Jaskier smiled and Geralt rolled his eyes, trust the Bard to find that humorous. He moved around to where Jaskier’s head was resting against the rim of the tub and kneeled. “The water is cleaning your wounds, I imagine it should be alright for your hair also though there is some soap.”

“Are you offering to wash my hair?” Jaskier asked, continuing to smile, though it took on a much more smug appearance.

“It’s a one-time offer,” Geralt grunted, regretting even mentioning it; Jaskier could always wash it tomorrow or in a few days when he was feeling stronger, after all. “Forget it,” he muttered.

“No, no,” Jaskier replied quickly, much more alert. “You offered and I accept. I’m an invalid, after all. Nearly died, Geralt.” Yes, Geralt definitely regretted the offer but he needed something to do and was loathed to admit he also wanted a reason to touch the Bard in any way he could. There was nothing to be read into a man washing another man’s hair while he was healing, it was just the kind thing to do for a friend. He located the soap and dipped it into the water before lathering the palms of his hands and then slowly, carefully, rubbing the soap into Jaskier’s hair. He started at the ends, making sure they were properly coated before moving to Jaskier’s head, massaging the soap into his scalp and hanging on the end of every pleased sigh Jaskier exhaled. They fell into a rhythm, neither questioning the length of time the hair washing was taking, but when Jaskier moaned with his mouth closed, Geralt’s hands stilled. “Don’t stop,” Jaskier muttered, his head pushing back into Geralt’s hands, the Bard’s eyes closed.

Geralt swallowed thickly and tried to restrain his libido as he continued to massage Jaskier’s head, the other man sighing every few minutes, pleased and unaware of Geralt’s ordeal. The next time Jaskier moaned, it was more of a contented hum but Geralt felt as though every muscle in his body was being clenched to combustion. He used the now empty jar the herbs had occupied to scoop up some bath water and rinsed Jaskier’s hair until all soap suds were gone. “Who’d have thought you’d be such a good handmaiden, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his smirk back in place.

“I learned from you,” Geralt replied, humourlessly. Geralt left Jaskier to bathe and told himself that putting together some extra food for Jaskier wasn’t just a way for him to escape the Bard’s naked company. When he returned to the bedroom, Jaskier was hobbling over to the bed, dripping water across the floor with every weak footstep. “Jaskier,” Geralt said, perplexed and irritated, “why didn’t you wait for me?” He asked, setting the tray of food down so he could grab a towel and help Jaskier over to the bed.

“Can...do...it,” Jaskier said breathlessly, eyes closed. Geralt glared at him for his foolishness but continued to help him back into bed, the Bard not complaining about his wet skin on the bed sheet. Geralt had barely managed to put the towel under the other man’s head before Jaskier was snoring quietly. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Jaskier’s sleeping face with an irritation that lost heat over mere seconds. He brushed the Bard’s wet fridge from his eyes and sighed, unable to do anything but begrudgingly accept he could no longer push down his feelings for his companion. He just hoped Jaskier was too self-absorbed to notice.

The sun was barely risen when Geralt left the Healer’s home, the kitchen needing supplies from the market. Not to mention, the medical supplies that needed restocking and repaid. He would have to pay Kazimierz handsomely for his work, lodgings, and candour. First, however, he could replace the bread, milk, and honey Jaskier had heartily devoured the day before after sleeping most of the day away. Though he was only walking the streets, Geralt brought Roach along as she was restless and required better lodgings of her own. He would have to find a proper stable if they were to stay in Vizima much longer.

He heard the morning routine of the market before he saw it, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the baker was an early salesman. While other tradesmen were still setting up their stalls, the baker was sitting on a wooden stool behind his supply, a cap pulled down low as though he planned on taking a nap before business flared. As Geralt approached, the baker looked up, having heard Roach’s hooves. Many of the marketmen stopped to watch, hesitating with arms full of produce.

“Good morning,” Geralt said as he approached the baker. The rotund man stood from his stool, a wary look on his face as he took in the helm of Geralt’s sword protruding over his shoulder.

“Morning to you,” he replied.

“Two loaves, if you please,” Geralt ordered and retrieved payment from a small leather pouch inside his tunic. He’d left Roach’s saddle and saddle bags at the Healer’s home, his heftier funds with it, so he hoped he had enough for the groceries he sought after. The baker wrapped two loaves of bread up in some brown paper and took payment before handing them over, careful not to touch Geralt’s skin in coin exchange as if Geralt were able to transfer his mutation through contact. As irritating as it was, Geralt was used to this kind of behaviour from humans.

Once he’d bought all of his groceries, he asked after a stable for Roach and was just about to leave the market place when a hand grasped his shoulder. For a beat, he thought it was Jaskier, but when he turned, he wasn’t surprised to see it wasn’t. The Bard was still recovering, after all. Instead, standing in the same green robes and wearing a far too smug look upon his face, was Ludwik. Geralt internally groaned, knowing why the Sorcerer had sought him out.

“I trust that friend of yours is in better health,” Ludwik said.

“He is,” Geralt replied, monotone. Roach bristled beside him.

“Good, good,” Ludwik said as he glanced around, smiling at the wary faces of the market stall owners. It was no doubt an odd occasion to them all, for a Witcher and a sorcerer to be doing business so early in the morning, and out in the open. “About that favour...”

“What do you want from me?” Geralt asked, wanting to cut to the chase.

“Those Drowners you took care of,” Ludwik said. “I’d like their brains.” Geralt knew Sorcerer’s sought after such things, they’re rebis ingredients after all, but it was a rather poor favour to call in.

“That’s it?” Geralt asked, narrowing his eyes. Ludwik smirked.

“That’s it,” he repeated. “It’s a popular ingredient. You must understand, living in a city such as this, surrounded by Drowners. Lots of travellers are brought in, some in worse conditions than your friend.” Geralt understood what Ludwik wasn’t saying, but still found it to be a poor exchange. The Healing Brew saved Jaskier’s life, and in exchange Ludwik wanted him to retrieve brains from already dead Drowners just so he could sell it on to the Healers of Vizima? He grunted.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s it.” Ludwik looked relieved that he didn’t have to say more or do any convincing, not that Geralt was easily convinced of anything he didn’t want to do. “I’ll bring it to the Inn tonight.”

“Good, good,” Ludwik said, his relief audible. “I look forward to it. Good day, Witcher.” Geralt grunted again and went on his way, he’d have to find Roach a stable later, needing her to head back on the road. He hoped the Drowner bodies were still in or by the lake, otherwise he’d be pitching up camp and waiting for some more to pay in his debt.

“I’ll come with you,” Jaskier said, already throwing back his bedsheet and trying to swing his legs off of the bed. Geralt folded his arms and stared the Bard down with a look that said ‘like hell you will.’ “I’ll be no bother at all,” Jaskier added, as if his behaviour had anything to do with why Geralt needed him to stay behind.

“No,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You’re still healing. I won’t be long.”

“But-“

“I said no, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, raising his voice. Jaskier pouted, looking incredibly put out which only made him look more ill in Geralt’s opinion. The Bard’s skin was still pale, his forehead still sweaty, and he still needed assistance to walk. “I won’t be long,” Geralt repeated, and sighed. Jaskier said nothing, and the two of them regarded one another for a minute before Geralt sighed again and turned to the door. “Eat. Drink. Don’t scratch,” and then he was gone. Jaskier listened to the Witcher’s footsteps on the stairs and only fell back into bed once the front door closed. As much as he wanted to go with Geralt, he had to admit he was still feeling tired. He brought the bed sheets up to his chin and shimmied until he was in a comfortable position. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Geralt returned to Vizima three days later, having had to hunt out more Drowners to pay his debt to Ludwik. On his way back into the city, he settled his debt with the gatemen and deposited the brains to the Sorcerer at the Inn before heading back to the Healer’s. As much as he hated it, he was itching to ensure Jaskier was in better health; that things hadn’t somehow gotten worse while he was away. When he entered, he was surprised to see Healer Kazimierz seeing to a patient.

“Ah, Geralt,” Kazimierz said, his tone chipper. “Your Bard is at the market, I’m afraid but you’re welcome to wait for him upstairs.”

“Thanks,” Geralt muttered and took the stairs, listening to the Healer’s patient enquire about him. Jaskier returned half an hour later, singing praises of the market in a fashion Geralt had missed. Yes, Jaskier was well and truly back to feeling himself. Upon hearing Kazimierz hint at someone waiting upstairs, Jaskier ran up the stairs and Geralt had mere seconds to fold his arm and lean up against the wall beside the window, looking indifferent. The door opened and Jaskier entered with a wide smile, wearing a new dark blue tunic. Geralt had to refrain from smiling back and pulling Jaskier into a crushing embrace.

“Wondered where you’d got to,” Jaskier said, his tone light but there was a definite hint of despair. “I won’t be long, you said.”

“Drowners had floated downstream. I had to wait for some more. Traps took some time.” Jaskier nodded, picking at his fingers as he listened to Geralt’s explanation.

“Well, you’re back now,” Jaskier said, clapping his hands together. “We should move on, don’t you think? Give Kazimierz his house back.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, in a tone that both of them hated to hear. Jaskier turned away, pretending not to have noticed.

“We could head South,” he continued, “or North, up to you, I really don’t mind.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, this time more softly. Jaskier turned back, his blue eyes full of sadness, and a pleading for Geralt to keep his words to himself. “You should stay here.” Jaskier closed his eyes and Geralt waited for a response, but got none. “It’s not safe-“ Jaskier laughed bitterly.

“I have noticed,” Jaskier said, “over the years… years, Geralt. We’ve been doing this for years. One little incident-“

“You could have died, Jaskier!”

“- does not mean anything has to change. I know the risks, okay. I’m not stupid.” Geralt glowered at him, desperate for Jaskier to understand, desperate for Jaskier’s safety – safety that he couldn’t guarantee. Jaskier ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at Geralt. “Just…give me another chance,” he said quietly. “I’ll do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, and he made his way over to the bed where he sat down. Jaskier waited a minute before falling down on the bed next to him. “But my life won’t ever change-“

“I’m not asking it to-“

“and I can’t promise you won’t get hurt again-“

“I’m not asking for that either-“

“Damnit, Jaskier!” Geralt snapped. “I can’t lose you, okay? I don’t want you to die, not because of me.” Geralt held his breath, afraid he’d already said too much, that Jaskier would know just how deep his feelings ran, and he was close to storming out in effort to throw Jaskier off but the Bard was simply choosing his words wisely.

“Kazimierz said that you offered your blood when… that’s a big deal, Geralt. I know… I’ve always known you didn’t want me to get hurt. That’s just who you are. But this is who I am, I’m stubborn and… travelling with you is and has been the best time of my life. I take full responsibility for my mortality. I’m not asking you to save me, Geralt… not like that, anyway.” Geralt was bemused by the last of Jaskier’s words, unsure as to Jaskier’s meaning but too afraid to ask. He knew he would reflect on them many times in the future, unable to quell the hope that they ignited in him. “You could teach me how to fight. I can learn to sword fight, enough to defend myself!” Jaskier said with childlike excitement, as if it fixed any and all future problems. Despite still wishing Jaskier would go his own, safer, way, Geralt had to admit it was a good idea. Whether Jaskier would take to the training was another thing entirely, but the huge infuriatingly selfish part of him that wanted Jaskier in his arms thought it was a good enough feat to let Jaskier continue travelling with him.

“Fine,” Geralt said, and Jaskier looked momentarily shocked, like he hadn’t expected Geralt to agree. “I’ll find you a blade. Pack up Roach and pay Kazimierz. We leave in an hour, I need to restock my first aid kit.”

“Maybe in two hours,” Jaskier said, earning a brow rise for Geralt. “You should really bathe before we leave…”

* * *

_Part Two_

_Summer, 1254_

_40m to Kagen_

Jaskier sauntered along the dirt road with a buoyancy in his step that only he could quite pull off, his blue-eyed gaze fixated on the back of his white-haired companion who was striding ahead with a determinedness in his shoulders. Jaskier knew Geralt enough by now to recognise when something more plagued his friend’s mind but he figured he’d wait until they’d set up camp before he asked. That way, Geralt wasn’t as likely to run away from his caring, if not slightly selfish, curiosity. He told himself it was healthy for Geralt to share, therefore it was healthy for him to be nosy. Geralt disagreed… often, but Jaskier continued to persevere for their friendship. 

It was summer, and the kind of one that left much to be desired but Jaskier still found it to be his favourite season. After all, it was the time of year when he and Geralt spent the most time together, following their temporary parting over Winter when Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier had often tried to convince the man that he should journey North too, but Geralt refused. Last winter, however, wasn’t as hard of a refusal as the years previously, and Jaskier was hopeful that this year he would be able to persuade Geralt to take him along. 

Roach slowed to a stop near a patch of long grass and Jaskier suppressed a smile at Geralt’s sigh. He watched the infamous un-feeling Witcher as he patted her neck gently and leaned in to say something. It was sometimes bizarre to him that Witchers had such an awful reputation. He doubted anyone who witnessed Geralt for more than 10 minutes on the road could think he was anything less than a softie at heart. The man was brave, heroic, handsome, and his touch was far from callous… well, Jaskier might be slightly biased, he supposed. Not everyone got to sleep beside a beefcake who could also murder them with his eyes closed. A threat Geralt made less and less as time wore on, despite how tense he got when Jaskier curled into his back during instances when bed-sharing was the only option. 

“Roach has called it, it’s time for lunch,” Jaskier shouted as he jogged a few steps to close the distance between himself and Geralt. 

“We’ve only been walking for a few hours,” Geralt replied in disagreement. Nevertheless, he let Roach eat what she could find and retrieved a pouch of water from the saddle which he promptly threw at Jaskier. Jaskier, who had been training with Geralt for the best part of a year, caught the pouch with impressive reflexes but then dropped it as he tried to pull out the cork. Geralt gave him an unimpressed look but said nothing, and Jaskier took that as a win. He enjoyed the small instances when Geralt was impressed with him, even when they were followed by his mistakes. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Geralt was coming to respect him. “Get out your blade,” Geralt said after he pulled the iron one from his back. Jaskier swallowed a mouthful of water, dribbling some, and grimaced at Geralt’s order. More training. While Jaskier had managed to prolong his time adventuring with Geralt by promising to learn defence, he wished Geralt took a more lax, student-mentorship approach instead of a spontaneous, one way, no nonsense curriculum that left him trudging sore. 

“Can’t we just rest for once?” He asked, recorking the water and putting it back into Roach’s saddlebag. Geralt was already circling him and Jaskier knew he wouldn’t get out of it, not unless Geralt accidently killed him, or worse; cut off his hand. How could he play with one hand? What if it was both hands? What kind of life would that be? He begrudgingly took the blade from his back and shrugged off his lute, leaving it at a safe distance. He wasn’t crazy. 

“You won’t be given time to put your lute down, Bard,” Geralt told him before swinging his blade. Jaskier blocked, parrying Geralt back only to block again. This was usually how their training went, Geralt on the attack and Jaskier on the defence which made sense to Geralt who didn’t plan for Jaskier to be killing anyone or anything, but Jaskier was tired of only using three moves. He said as much, often. 

“When are you going to teach me how to actually fight?” Jaskier asked, side-stepping and ducking just in time to avoid Geralt’s swing. He blocked again as Geralt lunged, the Witcher pushing him backwards despite Jaskier’s secure footing. “I can’t defend myself forever, Geralt. They’ll just wait for me to tire-” block, dodge, block, parry, “before killing me.” Geralt halted his blade to respond, contemplating Jaskier’s words, and Jaskier used this distraction to strike - albeit rather poorly. Geralt blocked the offence easily and tripped Jaskier over. The Bard huffed and then spluttered as some dirt soured his mouth. 

“The more you practice defence, the more resilience you build,” Geralt explained. Jaskier fought the urge to roll his eyes at Geralt’s mantra. “The longer you can hold out, the longer you live.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, rolling onto his back and propping himself up with his elbows. “But if I can kill them, then I won’t have to hold out long, will I?” He raised his brows in question, completely convinced he was right and Geralt was being unreasonable. Jaskier couldn’t fathom why Geralt wouldn’t teach him more, not that he wanted _extra_ sporadic training. The only line of enquiry he’d put thought into was that Geralt assumed he’d be more of a target if he could maim, but that still wasn’t enough of a reason to him. It didn’t make sense. He thought back to when Geralt had agreed to let him stay, a memory he held particularly dear though he never spoke of it. Geralt had said he couldn’t lose him, and for a man pretending not to be a love-sick fool, those words helped him overlook a lot of Geralt things he didn’t understand. 

“You shouldn’t be so impatient to become a killer, Jaskier,” Geralt said with a frown, a note of something unfamiliar in his voice that Jaskier couldn’t decipher, another thing he’d let slide. Jaskier shook his head to move his fringe out of his eyes, bringing himself back to the moment, and tilted his head back so he could look up at Geralt with one eye squinted, the heatless sun still blinding. 

“I just don’t see the point in only learning one side of the fight,” Jaskier replied. They’d had the same argument many times already but Geralt always insisted he wasn’t ready. Today, however, he looked less inclined to disagree with Jaskier’s reasoning - something Jaskier figured was more due to wearing conversation - or perhaps Geralt was impressed with his defence after all. Geralt pressed his lips into a firm line, a familiar expression, and held his hand out to Jaskier who took it and was pulled from the floor. Jaskier caught his bearings while Geralt stepped away and began to circle again, twirling his sword with precision as he thought. Jaskier loved to watch Geralt think in this manner, his hair wispy in the breeze, his eyes downcast and unseeing. He remembered the first time he’d witnessed this side of Geralt, and realised with an unfathomable warmth that Geralt trusted him enough to let down his guard. Jaskier waited patiently for all of 15 seconds, wondering what Geralt could be thinking so hard about, and then swung his own sword and had to duck from the blade. Geralt stopped and glared, but Jaskier simply smiled ruefully and lowered his sword again. 

“Fine,” Geralt growled. “I’ll teach you but only the basics.” Jaskier grinned, smug at having gotten his own way - finally - and started pacing in a dance-like manner. 

“Great. Brilliant, yeah. So, what’s first?” He asked, “Lunging?” 

“Yes,” Geralt replied. “To land this blow correctly, you need to have firm footing. To make it worthwhile, you need to use as much force as you can wield.” Jaskier nodded, practising a few steps that looked to be acceptable but as Geralt pushed on Jaskier’s shoulder, the Bard wobbled and had to step away to regain his balance. “It’s all about practice,” Geralt added at Jaskier’s brief look of disappointment. “Once we’ve made camp, I’ll find you a stump to practice your blows on.” 

“I just bring it down like this, right?” Jaskier asked, bringing his blade from the left as if having to use all of his strength to lift it before he swung the sword down into the ground. He looked to his trainer for validation, inhaling sharply. 

“That might work if you’re hammering a pen into the ground,” Geralt told him, “but I wouldn’t use a sword for the task.” Jaskier was confused and, again, disappointed. He was convinced he’d mirrored the move Geralt used during their training. Geralt sighed quietly before approaching, and Jaskier watched with uncertainty; anticipating another test in which he’d end up on the ground. What he wasn’t ready for was for Geralt to round and stand behind him, pausing for a second before he placed both hands on the sides of Jaskier’s upper arms. Just like that, Jaskier was no longer focussed on swordsmanship at all, and he was relieved that Geralt was in no position to see him blush. “Your strength is in your arms,” Geralt said, tone serious, voice quiet. Jaskier’s skin prickled with goosebumps and the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. The Witcher reached around and placed his hands over Jaskiers’, forcing him flat against Geralt’s chest; causing a heat to flood Jaskier’s body and making his palms sweat. _Oh, be still, my beating heart,_ Jaskier thought, incredibly conscious of how his body was reacting but not selfless enough to move away. “Bring the blade up,” Geralt said, guiding Jaskier’s swing, “and lean in with your shoulders when you bring the blade down.” 

“I can… can do that,” Jaskier murmured, mouth dry, unable to swallow the lump that had formed at the back of his throat. He tried and failed to ignore the feel of Geralt’s groin on his back. He attempted to clear his throat, the action sounding loud in his ears like it does when one is hyper aware of themselves. Jaskier had made a great deal of effort over the years to elude Geralt of his feelings, knowing the Witcher could always tell when he was aroused. He often spoke of maidens he’d met throughout the years that he hoped were well, allowing Geralt to believe sudden memories had swayed his fancy in the moment, but as he stood with Geralt, unable to move, unable to breathe; he realised how obvious it must be that his arousal was entirely Geralt provoked. He swallowed; time feeling impossibly slow as he waited for Geralt to say something, to move again. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt said at last, and Jaskier choked on his breath, completely certain that the tightness he heard in Geralt’s voice was lust. Jaskier was so surprised, he didn’t even make light of the situation when Geralt pulled away and returned to Roach in silence. “We should get moving,” was all he said, not looking back, and Jaskier watched, catching his breath, as Geralt led Roach away. Maybe... he had imagined the entire thing? Well, not the _entire_ thing. He had a fire in his belly, reminding him of a certain half-hard problem he needed to resolve if he wanted to look Geralt in the eyes again. 

They travelled for hours, Geralt in silence, Jaskier making bad jokes and nervous conversation. It was clear to the both of them that what had transpired earlier was something that needed addressing, though Geralt was hopeful that, in time, Jaskier would forget it ever happened without having to talk. It was approaching twilight when Geralt announced they’d stop to make camp, catering to Roach longer than he usually would in an effort to avoid Jaskier - an obvious effort that made Jaskier squirm. He quietly made up his sleeping area with his bedroll and blanket, designating the space beside it for the soon-to-be campfire, and pretended not to notice Geralt’s behaviour. But when he finished his agenda and turned to see Geralt still beside Roach, he realised - rather sadly - that Geralt clearly wanted time alone. 

“I’ll...er, get some sticks and things,” Jaskier said quietly, watching Geralt’s back as he spoke. When the Witcher turned to him, he looked away, lest Geralt see he was upset. Geralt, distracted by his own thoughts, grimaced when he realised that in order for them to move past his moment of weakness, they needed to get the talk over and done with. But he wasn’t sure where to start or what tale to tell Jaskier that would placate. Jaskier, taking Geralt’s silence for an answer, nodded and began to shuffle away. 

“We should talk,” Geralt blurted out and then sighed, meeting Jaskier’s surprised gaze with one of begrudging apology. Jaskier’s brows rose and fell a few times as he stammered, his brain quickly trying to weave together a false explanation for his earlier arousal, unaware that Geralt was doing the same. They both arrived at similar tales but Jaskier beat Geralt to it. 

“You should know that it’s simply been a while, that’s all,” Jaskier said, looking around at the various trees, his cheeks flushed, “Once we get to Kagen, I’m sure there’s...company there. I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable. If you’d like to be alone, I can-” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted, his face twisted in confusion. “I’m the one who should be apologising.” 

“Why?” Jaskier asked after a bated breath, hopeful that Geralt was about to confirm his own lust during their moment. Geralt’s expression changed and Jaskier was disappointed to see it was guarded. 

“I… should have listened to you sooner. About the training.” Jaskier looked down at the ground between them, accepting this to be Geralt’s honesty as thoughts of self-depreciation seeped in. He wanted to laugh at his own stupidity… believing Geralt would reciprocate his feelings… it was preposterous. Ludicrous. Unthinkable. “You’re right. It does make sense to teach you more.” Jaskier nodded, dejected, wishing he was placated by the sheer fact Geralt had said he was right, but his despair was too overwhelming.

“Right,” he said, and nodded again. “I’ll get those sticks now.” He walked away quickly, not paying much attention to his direction. He continued walking for nearly ten minutes, thoughts racing, chest aching. It wasn’t until he spotted a river that he halted, immediately remembering Geralt’s advice on avoiding water sources on his own lest he encounter Drowners again. The moon glinted off the surface and though he hated to admit it, the thought of actually having to use his sword against something other than Geralt frightened him. Geralt, who made him feel safe and… a number of other things. Jaskier leaned up against a tree and pressed his palms to his face. 

“Get a grip,” he told himself, irritated at his chaos of emotions. He and Geralt had been friends for a long time, he knew that that’s all they’d ever be, and he should’ve been grateful. But, by God, does the heart want what the heart wants. He cleared his throat, jogged up and down on the spot, shaking out his limbs, and forced himself to stop dwelling. It took another twenty minutes for him to collect sticks and return to the camp, getting a little lost on route due to the darkness and his general lack of understanding the area. Geralt was sitting on his own bedroll, a notable distance from Jaskier’s, with a pile of dry leaves in front of him. Jaskier approached, nerves returning. He placed the sticks down for Geralt who was looking at him oddly. “I’m exhausted,” he said, and he was, “gonna… sleep.” Geralt said nothing as he settled down on his bedroll, back facing him, and pulled his blanket up past his shoulders so that his face was hidden. And Jaskier said nothing as he lay there awake for a few excruciatingly slow hours. 

Jaskier was the first to wake up the following day, his body stiff and his arm sore from sleeping on his side. The sun hadn’t long risen and Jaskier could hear all sorts of musical birds in the trees above them. The fire was doused, no doubt courtesy of Geralt before he went to sleep, and Jaskier was feeling chilly. He got to his feet, stretched, yawned loudly knowing Geralt wasn’t likely to wake up, and ventured further afield to pee. On his way back to camp, he saw a small patch of stunningly bright blue flowers and detoured to get a better look. He crouched before them and smiled, thinking how pretty they were and wondering how he could use the sight of them in a song. He was certain Geralt would know what kind they were so he reached out to pluck one. Just as he was about to touch the stem, he was scared witless by a rough hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t touch that,” Geralt ordered. 

“You scared me,” Jaskier whined, his heart racing. Geralt moved away, his eyes glancing between the flowers and the trees around them. 

“That’s Amnorona, also known as Widow’s Kiss,” Geralt explained but Jaskier knew nothing of rare flora so simply got to his feet and waited for further information. The name suggested something sinister and Geralt’s order not to touch told Jaskier the flower was bad news, most likely poisonous. Typical given its beauty, perhaps he would use it in his next ballad after all. “The petals are coated with an oil toxic to humans and most animals. Ingesting it would kill you in minutes. If I’d have known it was so close by, I would have moved our camp away.” 

“Does it kill Witchers too?” Jaskier asked, curious as to whether or not Geralt could handle it. 

“No,” he replied, “Semisiptine, the poison, acts more like an amative substance.” Jaskier tilted his head, eyes wide, and tried not to snort. 

“An aphrodisiac?” He asked, surprised. Geralt looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

“It’s dangerous.” 

“I’ll say,” Jaskier smirked, earning a huff from Geralt. “How does it work?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Geralt snapped, pacing. Jaskier wasn’t surprised given Geralt was a prude. He knew, of course, that they both visited certain sensual establishments when in cities or towns but Geralt refused to ever speak of it - and if Jaskier wasn’t so completely in love with the fool, he’d probably have mocked Geralt for it by now. 

“I bet your Witcher buddies would pay a fine price for some,” Jaskier simply muttered in reply, moving away from the deadly flower. “There’s not much though.” 

“It’s not native to the area,” Geralt said, kneeling a few feet away and rubbing some soil in between his fingers. Jaskier now understood why his friend was acting so suspicious. 

“Grown?” 

“Planted,” Geralt answered. “Someone specifically put this here. Someone not human.” Jaskier almost asked why but decided against it given Geralt clearly didn’t know. He found himself looking around too now, though the chances of him spotting something Geralt didn’t were little to none. “We’ll head down to the stream and wash. Don’t touch anything. Be vigilant. Whatever placed this lure is likely to come back.” Jaskier grimaced at the word lure, and then grimaced again when he thought of how close he was to death by simply picking a flower. He followed Geralt back to camp, watched as he packed everything up and then walked beside him as they led Roach down through the trees towards the river Jaskier had seen last night. When they arrived at a low natural embankment, Jaskier looked out across the water warily. 

“Take off your clothes,” Geralt ordered and Jaskier looked at him, somewhat thrown at the command. “Traces, Jaskier. You’ll need to get rid of the clothes you’re wearing.” He figured that made sense but for a brief moment, Jaskier felt self-conscious. Ever since the Drowners had attacked him, he’d been worried about what others thought of his body now the main stretch of his back and torso were scarred. Almost none of his lovers had seen them, not questioning as to why Jaskier wanted to keep his shirt on. The only two that had borne distinctly similar features to that of Jaskier’s travelling companion. After setting his sword and lute down against a tree, he started with his boots, trousers, and briefs, and then removed his shirt before quickly wading into the water and swearing continuously to himself due to the temperature. 

“Are there any monsters known for luring?” Jaskier asked, wanting to distract Geralt from his scars and himself from the freezing cold water he was bathing in. 

“Not like this,” Geralt replied, bagging Jaskier’s clothes with his bedsheet. He added his own clothes to the bundle and tossed it down stream before wading into the river himself. Jaskier kept his gaze levelled on the water around them, hypersensitive to bits of debris brushing past his legs with the current. “There’s no Drowners nearby,” Geralt told him after a few minutes of silence, his voice gentle. Jaskier forced a weak laugh. 

“Thought as much,” he lied and set about rubbing water across his skin. “How long till we get to Kagen?” 

“Two days, maybe three.” Geralt waded out further into deeper water and Jaskier turned towards the embankment when Geralt dove under the water. Two days until warm baths, good food, and they were sleeping in a proper bed again. Jaskier looked forward to playing in a bar, drinking ale, and hopefully hooking up with a drunk stranger. He ignored the wispy thought that Geralt would probably be seeking the comfort of a stranger too. 

Jaskier got out before Geralt and dressed in a grey poet shirt with blue pants. He was attempting to style his slightly damp hair when Geralt emerged. Plucking his lute from the ground, Jaskier found a place to sit and strummed a tune. 

“Amnorona… what a lure

features delicate, sweetly pure

like the kiss of deceasing

my heart beat increasing

yours for so shortly, mine 

Forever more.” 

“That doesn’t rhyme,” Geralt grunted, “Pure, more.” Jaskier ignored his feedback but ceased playing. 

“When are we heading off?” 

“I want to hunt the monster,” Geralt replied, which Jaskier understood to mean that’s what they were doing. He sighed slightly, knowing this meant a longer wait for Kagen ale, linen, and company. “If it is what I think it is, it won’t feel the need to wait for nightfall.” 

“What do you think it is?” Jaskier asked, wondering if he would be allowed to stay and witness the ordeal or if he’d be sent away with Roach. It was probably the latter; Geralt was overprotective like that now which was lousy for Jaskier’s song writing. Geralt didn’t reply and Jaskier didn’t ask again, not until they were heading back towards where the flowers were growing did Geralt voice his theory. 

“If I’m right,” he said, “the creature is a Demfire.” When he didn’t expand on his words, Jaskier was forced to ask. He fell behind, walking to the side of Roach who he patted as they sauntered. 

“And a Demfire is?” He asked, wishing he could stop to make note of whatever Geralt actually told him. It wasn’t the first time he thought of writing a Bestiary for himself, assuming Geralt must have one of his own somewhere. Jaskier had random bits of parchment detailing this and that, some kept in his bag, most left behind in inns across the continent. Geralt turned back to him, incomprehensible thoughts on his face, his jaw tight. He opened his mouth to reply and then a second later, he was flying through the air and crashing into a tree. Roach startled, her reins having been in Geralt’s hand, and she trotted off to higher ground for safety. Jaskier knew she wouldn’t go far, so he ran to find Geralt.

“Jaskier, follow Roach,” Geralt ordered, shouting in hopes Jaskier would hear and obey. Jaskier stumbled through the trees and entered a clearing where Geralt stood, silver sword drawn. “Get away from here.” 

“Is it a Demfire?” Jaskier asked. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt barked, he almost growled in irritation when Jaskier looked at him with a face of enquiry and not fear. “No, it’s a Pech Fey. They’re tricksters that deal in bad luck curses.” Jaskier’s brows rose, his mind picturing a fairy though he doubted the creature would look as imagined by most storytellers. “Get to Roach.” Jaskier listened this time and moved away, estimating his route to Geralt’s horse. He moved quickly, stepping over roots and dodging low hanging branches. It wasn’t until he reached Roach, who was carelessly grazing, that he heard the most ungodly screeching. He turned towards the noise, adrenaline pumping through his veins, sweat coating his forehead. Roach snorted, startling him. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jaskier said, patting Roach who turned away and snorted again. Jaskier frowned at her, wishing Geralt had a dog instead so that he could at least be comforted by the Witcher’s companion. Knowing Geralt, it would be something vicious and possibly prone to biting. There was more screeching, and he couldn’t work out whether it was louder or simply closer. “Probably just louder, right?” He wasn’t convinced by his own response, not that he’d have been convinced by Roach’s either, and led her further away through the trees. If they could get back to the road, he might be able to see over the tops of the trees running alongside the river. If Geralt went flying again, he’d most likely be able to see.

Ten minutes later, Jaskier was teetering on running back into the forest to aid Geralt in any way he could - probably getting in the way. He’d reached the road but had not seen nor heard any other signs of Geralt or the Fey. Roach wasn’t bothered in the slightest which Jaskier hoped translated into ‘stop worrying, he’ll be fine.’ When Geralt, dripped wet and glaring, emerged in the trees walking towards him, Jaskier almost fell to his knees. 

“There you are,” he said, badly feigning composure. “I thought for sure you were a goner- why are you wet?” Geralt turned his general anger from his situation to Jaskier’s question, shooting the Bard a look that told him to let it go. Jaskier, ever the curious, simply put his hands on his hips and raised his brows. “Did it take you swimming?” 

“I had to wash the Semisiptine off,” he said, deadpan. Jaskier’s mind whirred as he connected the dots and he snorted. 

“I bet you did,” he said, his cheeks tinting red at the thought of Geralt touching himself to relieve the aphrodisiac's effects. “While I’ve been stood here worrying like an old ninny, you’ve been-” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned. Jaskier rolled his eyes, his worry diminished. 

“Did you at least find out why it planted the lure?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Geralt said, “while it was trying to kill me, or worse - hex me, I managed to sit down with it and discuss its motives.” 

“No need to be so touchy,” Jaskier replied, putting his hands up in surrender. He watched as Geralt climbed up onto Roach, and readied himself to follow along behind, but Geralt twisted and held out his hand. “What?” He asked, confused as to what Geralt wanted from him. 

“Get up here,” Geralt said. “We’ll get to Kagen faster.” 

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier asked, the only reason he could fathom as to why Geralt would want to rush to Kagen. Geralt clenched his jaw. 

“No, but I’m wet and out of dry clothes, get on.” Jaskier regarded Geralt, unsure as to whether Geralt would tell him even if he was hurt. He supposed it would be a nice change to ride on Roach, having only done so a few times now… though they hadn’t rode together since the Drowner attack last year and Jaskier had been unconscious for it. “Would you prefer to meet me there?” Geralt asked, retracting his helpful hand. 

“No,” Jaskier sighed. It took a few minutes for him to awkwardly climb up into Roach’s saddle behind Geralt, not helped by the lack of room and the way Roach kept stepping back and forth to shift the weight. He was glad he was behind Geralt as his cheeks flushed, unable to put room between them which meant his crotch was pressed up against Geralt’s lower back. He willed away any improper thoughts as he put his arms around Geralt’s waist. Once they were on the move, Jaskier found the journey rather uncomfortable and it was easy to forget his predicament. Geralt, however, was counting backwards in his head to distract himself. 

The small Riverdell town was bustling with its residents when Geralt and Jaskier arrived on horseback. From the banners hanging over fences and lowered from windows, it was clear to decipher that there was an upcoming festival though Geralt couldn’t recall its importance. Jaskier was enthralled to see all of the bouquets tied to posts and fixed above doorways. 

“Laetitia,” Jaskier said, reading the banner. “Delight?” He asked Geralt, wondering if his companion knew what the festival was celebrating. Geralt didn’t reply. They rode through the streets, looked upon with curiosity and disdain. When they found a tavern, Geralt helped Jaskier down and tied Roach to a hitching post. “Oh how I’ve yearned for Kagen ale,” Jaskier said, stretching. “I hope the keeper will allow me to play.” 

“I’m sure there are other taverns here if not,” Geralt muttered and Jaskier was somewhat surprised to hear his friend give what sounded like reassurance. He watched Geralt closely as he took the saddle bags from Roach, and they entered The Long Lyre. The Tavern was the nicest they’d entered in months, and Jaskier knew there was serious money to be made in Kagen. He wondered what the locals were like as he waited for Geralt to sort out a room, the inn only servicing one punter at the bar who was still drunk from the evening before. He wore a satin shirt beneath a tattered waistcoat but even in its condition, Jaskier could tell it had been well made once upon a time. 

“My wife, Lydia, will take you up to your room,” a wary voice said, and Jaskier’s attention was brought to that of the Tavern keeper. He was young, early 30s, with pale green eyes and a mop of brown curls. Jaskier wondered how he’d come to own the establishment but he was sure he could ask later once he was looking proper and fresh. Geralt grunted his thanks to the young man who glanced between the two of them, his teeth and fists clenched. Lydia was a pretty girl, barely 20, with long blonde curls and a heavily pregnant stomach. She led them to their room in silence and ducked away as soon as she could. Jaskier closed the door behind himself and immediately went to flop down on the bed. 

“Better than I imagined,” Jaskier moaned, his back sore from riding. All he wanted to do was curl up under the sheets and sleep but the prospect of a bath first had him propped up on his elbows. Geralt was unpacking, Jaskier’s eyes followed his movements. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Silence. “Because if you weren’t, you could tell me. I’m rather skilled at coming up with solutions. I once-” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier shut up and regarded Geralt with an unwavering stare. Geralt looked away first, a sigh on his breath. He continued stuffing his bedroll into a beautifully polished cabinet; such a thing would usually have Jaskier wincing due to his respect for the finer things in life but he was too concerned, too curious. His eyes trailed down Geralt’s body, noting the tense shoulders, the rigid movements, his lean hips. Jaskier licked his lips, his eyes fluttering down and briefly fixing on Geralt’s crotch; trousers straining. _Oh._ A million thoughts could have cycled through his head, he could have tried to decipher how long his Witcher had been unable to rein in his arousal; could have wondered what had the man so hot under the collar, so to speak, but before he could stop himself, before he could coherently think things through; he blurted out. 

“I could help you, if you like.” His tone betrayed his own spike of arousal and Geralt’s head whipped round, his golden eyes pinning Jaskier to the spot. His cheeks flushed at what he’d said, and how he heard himself say it. Seconds under Geralt’s knowing look and he realised where he was and with actual Geralt, not the one he played out fantasies with in his head while rugged men fucked him against private tavern walls. “With putting things away,” he added half-heartedly, looking down at his chest, hating the way it betrayed his fast beating heart. His hands idly fiddled with the creases of bed linen beneath them, and he waited with baited breath for Geralt to say something. 

“Go and speak to the innkeeper,” Geralt ordered, though his voice was more strained than commanding. “There was mention of a bath.” Jaskier, eager to get out of there, shot to his feet and left the room without another word. Geralt pushed his fingers through his hair and groaned quietly to himself, his mind, body, and heart at odds with one another. 

Jaskier still found himself able to smile charmingly at Lydia who stood behind the bar, despite his heightened embarrassment. She smiled ever so slightly back, like she wasn’t supposed to, and waited for him to speak. “Is your husband about?” 

“He’s in the cellar,” she replied, clutching a rag to her stomach. “Can I help with anything?” 

“Er, my dear friend Geralt is enquiring after a bath,” he said, glancing along the glistening bottles of spirits on the counter behind her. He wondered which one he’d be drowning his denial in tonight. 

“It’s upstairs, two doors down from you and...,” Lydia said, and Jaskier smiled, knowing he needed to ease her discomfort. 

“Thank you, kind lady,” he replied. “Your Tavern is the fresh blooms of Spring, so beautiful and promising. I have travelled for what feels like the long and dark months of winter, and your home… your glistening establishment, is a lighthouse, basking me in safety and-” 

“She told you where the bath is,” a nervous voice interrupted from behind and Jaskier spun around to see the innkeeper holding a washcloth and sweating. Jaskier was glad to see him, now in the swing of his jovial personality. 

“Ah, good man,” he said. “I was hoping to have the honour of a conversation. You see, I’m quite known across the lands for my-” 

“I’ll have some hot water sent up to the bath,” Lydia said to her husband, ducking away. 

“-ballads and-” 

“I have a tavern to run if you don’t mind,” the innkeeper said, attempting to shut Jaskier’s request down. Unfortunately for him, Jaskier was a professional when it came to securing engagements and he wasn’t below begging. 

Geralt was sitting in the cramped bathtub, willing his muscles to relax, when Jaskier strolled in with confidence in his stride. He’d feared the Bard would be discomforted in his presence given what had transpired less than thirty minutes ago but Jaskier seemed to have moved on. Geralt was envious that thoughts didn’t plague Jaskier’s mind in the way his did. He was still reeling from the scent of Jaskier’s arousal, thoughts circling the sound of the other man’s voice when he’d quite clearly offered to help. He tried to tell himself that Jaskier was simply lonely and that the Bard would find sweet company while they were in Kagen, and this would be nought but a blip in the scheme of things, but his heart wanted Jaskier to want him. And so did his body. 

Jaskier, oblivious, was palavering on how he would be performing downstairs for the finest of Kagen’s residents. His clothes were dirty, hair mussed, fingernails black, but his eyes were bright and his smile was dehydrating. Geralt found Jaskier’s optimism irritating at times but he had to admit, nobody captured the room and demanded adoration while looking dreadful quite like Jaskier could. Not that the Bard would look remotely dreadful after a bath and a change of clothes. 

“-I get the distinct feeling that he doesn’t like me which is outrageous if you ask me. I was perfectly charming-” 

Geralt watched as Jaskier paced, his body animated as he spoke, eyes looking everywhere but at Geralt. He pressed his lips together. Perhaps his companion wasn’t quite as over their earlier transgression as he’d like Geralt to believe. 

“-honestly, I think once he’s heard me sing, he’ll forget all about it.” Jaskier looked to Geralt for some sort of response, his brows raised, arm outstretched, palm flat in request. His cheeks tinted pink and Geralt had to stamp down on how pleased he was to smell Jaskier’s nerves. They locked gazes for a long, building minute, and Geralt listened curiously to the quickening beat of the Bard’s heart. He was sweating in the humidity of the bathroom but also due to something more. He tried to recall his oath to mind, the promise he’d made himself years ago, but over the past year it had gotten harder to remember why he’d made it so resolute. He liked to think it was clear Jaskier found him attractive at times, but then the doubts resurfaced, and he reminded himself of who he was and the life he led. Jaskier would go his own way eventually. Jaskier looked away and Geralt’s jaw tightened. “I think it would be wise for me to acquire us some new clothing if we are to be seen in company tonight.” 

“Take whatever you need,” Geralt told him, as was their usual situation. Jaskier often confused need with want, buying pricier garments than Geralt would have chosen, but he often made up for it procuring ale in villages and towns. And if Geralt admired Jaskier’s outfits as he stood on barstools to sing for punters, that was his business. He only hoped Jaskier would remember to buy him something appropriate. 

“I shan’t be long,” Jaskier promised and with one last rushed look, he was out of the room and on his errand. Geralt sank further down into his bath, finding it somewhat cramped, and let out a long sigh that had his body deflating.

The sun was setting, hues of orange and pink painted across the sky, and Geralt was on his third pint of ale when a group of boisterous locals entered the Long Lyre. The innkeeper, Leon, looked pleased to see them and Geralt glanced over at the smell of the man’s relief. It was clear to him that Leon feared him, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if the newcomers were friends sent to move him along. Leon’s wife, Lydia, was waiting tables in a fine dress that accentuated her curves but her face was forlorn and she barely managed a weak smile to anyone. Geralt finished his drink and stood, effectively silencing the rowdy men who had taken to the tables nearest to the door - and furthest away from him. They tensed as he walked by on his way out. Geralt would have preferred to continue drinking until he could appreciate the surroundings but he was awfully aware that Jaskier had been gone for a long time. Longer than usual, in any case.

He stalked through the streets, squinting in the spots of direct sunlight, until he found a stronger scent of his Bard. Not that he needed it, he could hear the ramblings of Jaskier two streets away. In less than a minute, he was sauntering up the dead end alleyway and folding his arms.

“I c-c-can assure you,” Jaskier stammered, holding his hands up as if it would dissuade the men from their assault. His sword was in the hands of his lead adversary and Geralt could only imagine how easily the cad in green had taken it from him. He internally cursed at Jaskier having been right about his training. Jaskier spotted him from between the three large men and visibly relaxed his shoulders. “Ah, Geralt,” he said, in greeting. The three men turned, glaring at the intrusion.

“Move along-” one of them was beginning to say but stopped when they realised Geralt was a Witcher. His blue eyes fixated on the wolf chain.

“We’ve got no quarrels with you, Witcher,” the man holding Jaskier’s sword said. “Move on.” Geralt smirked at the man’s false confidence, knowing all three of the assailants feared him.

“I’d advise the three of you to forget your woes and return to the festivities,” he said and added, “without my friend’s sword.” The cad and blue-eyes glanced at one another, and though irritated, were smart enough not to disagree. The sword was thrown down to the ground and with one last harsh look at Jaskier, the two of them walked back towards Geralt; parting widely as they passed. One man remained, his weathered face stoic as he regarded Geralt, fists clenched at his sides.

“Fenn,” the cad called from the end of the alley.

“You go on, I’ll catch up,” Fenn replied. His two friends hesitated before leaving them alone. Geralt waited for Fenn to speak again, the man clearly wanting something from him. He glanced at Jaskier who, now safe, was collecting the items he’d purchased earlier off of the ground where they’d been thrown. Geralt sighed and was about to offer Fenn another piece of advice when he caught the off smell. He hadn’t detected it, hadn’t been looking for it, when Fenn and his pals stood together but now the man was alone… Geralt could recognise that he wasn’t a man at all.

In seconds, he was drawing his silver sword, ready to question its intentions, but the creature lunged forward, knocking him onto his back, pinning his sword behind him. Geralt grabbed Fenn’s shoulders and headbutted him before throwing him off, but Fenn was quick to recover and pulled a knife from his boot that he threw with precision. The blade planted into Geralt’s hand as he was getting to his feet and he grunted. Fenn was retrieving the sword from the ground when Jaskier launched himself onto Fenn’s back, covering his head with a shirt. Fenn bucked him off and whipped the shirt off, only for Geralt to disarm him and land a punch to the nose. Fenn fell to the floor and groaned.

“What’re you doing here?” Geralt asked. Dopplers, he knew, didn’t travel this far south; usually residing in Novigrad.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” Fenn said, scooting backwards along the ground.

“Don’t hurt _you_?” Jaskier asked, shrieking in disbelief and throwing his hands up in the air, fully offended. “You just attacked _him_! Honestly, Geralt, just-”

“Shut it, Jaskier,” Geralt ordered, silencing him. “What of the human, did you-?”

“No,” Fenn said quickly. “He moved away, I just… returned and…”

“Took over his life?”

“It isn’t like that,” Fenn glared.

“Wait,” Jaskier said. “Human? You’re not… well, what are you then?” Jaskier asked, slow on the uptake, hands on hips.

“Why did you attack me?” Geralt asked, ignoring his companion. Fenn gave him a look of disbelief.

“You’re a Witcher, you were going for your sword!” Geralt found the answer to be fair though he was still pissed off about the knife through his hand which he’d removed and thrown aside. In an hour it would be healed, but it was still something he could have done without.

“If I find out you’ve hurt anyone,” Geralt threatened.

“I haven’t,” Fenn said truthfully. Geralt sighed, lowering his sword and indicating Fenn should clear off with the jut of his head. Fenn, not needing to be told twice, scrambled to his feet and made to run away. But as soon as Fenn was behind Geralt, he lunged again and Geralt grunted, falling on his front with a thud. He glared, thoroughly pissed now that his compassionhad been thrown back in his face. He looked up at Jaskier who was stunned. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he saw Fenn had retrieved Jaskier’s sword again and was about to swing it down into his back. Geralt kicked at Fenn’s leg, throwing the shifter off balance and got to his feet in enough time to use his own sword to block the offending lunge.

“You should’ve run,” Geralt told him.

“So you can just hunt me later?” Fenn asked and lunged again. He was a good swordsman… or at least, the real Fenn was a good swordsman, but not good enough to be a worthwhile threat. Geralt stepped aside easily, and now Fenn was attacking with his back in Jaskier’s direction. It was obvious to him that the Doppler wasn’t going to cease but killing it had the same affinity of a human swatting a persistent fly. He sighed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt told him. Fenn charged, yelling as he did so, but without the element of surprise, Fenn was unable to knock him back or land a swing of his blade. Fenn continued, swing after swing, unrelenting and Geralt was growing more and more irritated. He considered simply letting the creature tire itself out and then giving it another chance to take off, but then there was a chance it would return in order to ‘eliminate him as a threat’ and knowing Jaskier’s track record, the Bard would probably get hurt somehow.

He blocked and parried Fenn back. “I’m giving you one last chance to run.” Fenn snorted in disgust, and moving quickly, he managed to slice into Geralt’s hand - again. Geralt growled but before he could deliver his own blow, a blade swung down over the back of Fenn, wedging into his shoulder. He cried out in pain and dropped to his knees. Jaskier, wild eyed with panic, stared at where the sword had embedded into the shifter’s flesh and Geralt heaved a sigh. He silenced the shifter, his silver sword driven through the neck, his eyes fixated on Jaskier. “Look at me.” Jaskier’s eyes dragged up to Geralt’s.

With shaking hands, Jaskier let go of the sword’s hilt, but in doing so he glanced down again and his jaw dropped at the sight. Fenn had transformed back to his original state in death, no longer looking remotely human, but rather hideous with coarse, burnt like skin, bright yellow eyes, and elongated limbs. Jaskier stepped back, almost stumbling over his feet, as Geralt withdrew his sword and put it away. The body of the Doppler fell forwards, sword hilt towards the sky.

“I didn’t think,” Jaskier said, voice reflecting varying emotions trying to overpower one another. Geralt stepped over Fenn and approached Jaskier, arms out so that when he was within range; he could place them on Jaskier’s upper arms. Jaskier was conflicted, trying to reason that he was helping Geralt - that the creature was the assailant, but the sound of the creature - of Fenn’s cry rattled around in his head. He hadn’t thought inflicting pain, despite how necessary in the situation, would feel so sickening. Guilt was quickly turning into anxiety, freezing the blood in his veins.

“I know,” was all Geralt said, studying him with the softest expression Jaskier had even seen on his face. He could tell that Geralt did truly know what he was feeling, and was relieved there were no cliché placates to invalidate his experience. He wasn’t sure what he’d have said or done if Geralt had tried to tell him everything was alright in that moment. “Let’s go get a drink.”

Leon asked no question when Geralt informed him Jaskier wouldn’t be performing after all, his curious but wary gaze drawn to Geralt’s bloodied hand more than once. Jaskier sat in a secluded booth, lost in thought, while Geralt retrieved the drinks and it wasn’t until he was on his second pint that he sat back and looked at Geralt properly.

“It is always like that?”

“No,” Geralt said, honestly.

“When…?” Jaskier asked, trailing off. Geralt waited for further explanation. “Which number did you reach beforehand?” Clearly, this was not the kind of conversation Geralt wanted to have with anyone - least of all Jaskier who was looking at him like he was at a major crossroads in his life.

“The number doesn’t matter,” he said and sighed, looking down at his drink. “There’ll always be some degree of guilt that you carry with you. That’s why I hunt monsters, not people. But some monsters… well, they’re a little too close to those I try to protect.” Jaskier thought about this for a few minutes, and then his shoulders sagged.

“I still want to learn,” he eventually said, “to fight properly.” Geralt pressed his lips into a firm line, mentally agreeing but not wanting to promise Jaskier anything too soon. “I don’t want to feel like this again… but if it comes down to it. If it’s me or you against them. I choose us.” Geralt looked up into Jaskier’s painfully certain eyes and knew, right then, despite everything - despite the excuses he came up with, despite how many times he pushed him away, despite whatever came up against him - that Jaskier wasn’t ever going to walk away. “I know the dangers. I know how much you go out of your way to keep me safe, and I promise I won’t always be such a burden-”

“You’re not a burden, Jaskier,” Geralt said, interrupting. He swallowed with difficulty, processing an intense amount of hope rising in his stomach. Unable to continue looking at the Bard, afraid he’d begin to manically grin - or worse, make unmistakable love eyes, Geralt looked to a nearby wooden pillar to focus on while Jaskier thought of what to say. It was obvious to the both of them that they were teetering on the edge of a conversation that could change everything if they’d only push through the awkwardness and fear.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say for a while,” Jaskier started, always the one to broach conversations Geralt didn’t want to have. He was aware of how Geralt tensed but he wasn’t immediately shut down which spurred him on. “Something I suspect you might have picked up on. You know, once or twice. In fact, it’s more than once or twice, possibly a lot of times depending on how much you’ve been paying attention.” They fell into a charged silence. Jaskier wasn’t used to Geralt letting him ramble and he hoped he wasn’t about to make a huge mistake, not that he’d let Geralt ditch him over a crush. If they could avoid talking about Geralt’s Child Surprise, they could certainly avoid talking about Jaskier’s unrequited crush.

He tried not to think about that outcome though. A small fire inside of him was so adamant that Geralt felt at least something _more_ for him, that he knew he had to at least put it out there - and pray to the Gods that Geralt let him in. “I, err,” he cleared his throat, making Geralt’s nervous gaze flicker to him, “Well, I might as well show my hand, so to speak. I know how much you like Gwent, thought you might like that phrase. I, err, well, I think I love you.” Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to look at Geralt as he said those words, or even afterwards as they sat in silence. In fact, Geralt managed to finish his pint before he stood, metaphorically crushing Jaskier’s heart in one movement. “Geralt…” he said, deflated, his voice catching.

“We should go upstairs,” Geralt told him and Jaskier’s face scrunched up in confusion. He was about to ask why, considering Geralt could just as easily break his heart then and there, which he was, when Geralt added. “I can’t exactly ravish you here, can I?” It took fifteen seconds for Jaskier’s brain to catch up and he ended up coughing on the air caught in his throat. Words were swinging into the forefront of his mind like shooting stars hitting cornfields, but the words that left his mouth were,

“Not with that attitude, you can’t.”

Geralt, trying not to smile as he smelled the complete 180 change of Jaskier’s emotions, simply rolled his eyes. “I’d rather not put on a show for the locals,” he said, “at least… not this time.” And without another word, he turned and walked away towards the stairs. Jaskier sat for a moment, jaw hanging, heart racing; blood rushing. He felt sick with relief, joy, and arousal. When Geralt disappeared at the top of the stairs, he stumbled out of the booth and almost tripped on the way up, rushing after the other man.

“I swear, you move faster than anyone I've ever met. I don’t know how that’s possible given you’re the size of a bear and wear-” Jaskier’s words ceased immediately as he entered their room and saw Geralt standing before the window, shirtless. He stared openly, trying to swallow but his throat was too dry. He breathed in, tasting the room on his tongue, unable to move as Geralt dropped the shirt he was holding in his hand to the floor. Time slowed right down as he closed the distance, one step at a time, and Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed as Geralt leaned in; closing the door behind Jaskier before pressing him up against it. Jaskier opened his eyes slowly, only to stare at Geralt’s lips.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said quietly. “Are you sure about this?” Jaskier knew he’d never been more sure about anything, but instead of saying so, he leaned in and capture’s Geralt’s lips with his own; holding the taller man’s jaw with both hands in order to angle it down. The kiss was soft at first, not hesitant… just an answer; a promise. It was Geralt who deepened the kiss, hands on Jaskier’s hips. They stood, pressed together, tasting and exploring each other’s mouths until Geralt shifted and they both groaned, erections rubbing. “You have no idea how much I want you,” Geralt confessed, breaking away to inhale Jaskier’s hair.

“You have me,” Jaskier replied, running his fingers over Geralt’s chest. “You have me,” he repeated, and Geralt kissed him again, pulling them further into the room so that he could run his hands down over Jaskier’s bum. Jaskier moaned when Geralt squeezed his cheeks, and he couldn’t help rubbing one of his hands against the front of his trousers; impatient for friction. Geralt chuckled, sending goosebumps down his back, and pulled away.

“I meant what I said, I want to ravish you... I want to make you come, I want to come inside you.” Jaskier mewed in desperation, unable to handle just how hot Geralt’s words were, how hot his touch was, how hot he was.

“I think that’s something we can arrange,” Jaskier replied, and shuddered when Geralt grabbed the hand that was pressed to his groin.

“I don’t think you need those trousers,” Geralt purred, and Jaskier watched as the Witcher’s hands untied the front lace and pulled the garment down, crouching so he could hold them in place as Jaskier stepped over them. Geralt’s gaze fixated on Jaskier’s cock, hard beneath the thin fabric of his underwear, and he licked his bottom lip; which drove Jaskier into a new dimension of arousal. They were silent, breathing heavily, as Geralt removed Jaskier’s boots one at a time, and then rose to his full height; muscles flexing.

Their mouths met again, impatient this time, frantic for a faster pace. Hands roamed, learning which parts of their partner was sensitive. Geralt was particularly pleased by the way Jaskier grunted when his hair was pulled from the back, exposing his neck. He slowly backed Jaskier up against the bed and when the Bard fell backwards, he watched hungrily as Jaskier backed up into the middle of the bed. He slid on top, dragging pillows beneath Jaskier’s head as they kissed with Jaskier’s fingers in his hair.

Geralt pressed gentle kisses down Jaskier’s chin and neck, tilting his head back, until he reached a sensitive spot on Jaskier’s throat, just below his Adam's apple, and sucked. Jaskier moaned, vibrating against Geralt’s tongue, and tilted his head back further to expose the erogenous area. “Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, eyes closed. Geralt continued his trail of kisses down until he reached the neckline of Jaskier’s shirt, his hands skimming the bottom but not breaching the clothed zone Jaskier had purposefully orchestrated. He sat up, straddling Jaskier’s waist, and stared down at the flushed face of his lover. Jaskier looked divine, flustered and trapped beneath him, hair mussed and breathless. Geralt brought his hand up to Jaskier’s cheek and stroked it until Jaskier opened his eyes.

“Can I?” He asked, needing Jaskier’s permission. He wanted full access to the Bard’s body if he could have it, knowing just how much more pleasure he could give. Jaskier swallowed and hesitantly nodded. Geralt brushed his fingers over Jaskier’s chest, feeling the rough edges of his scars beneath; the scars Jaskier hated him to see. “Are you sure?” Geralt asked, continuing to watch Jaskier’s face. He would be unable to tell if Jaskier was lying as his heart beat was already fast.

Jaskier sucked in a breath, swallowed, and mumbled a “yes” before repeating it with more certainty. Geralt smiled, slowly at first, until he was radiating satisfaction and helped Jaskier forward so that he could pull the shirt off over his head. Falling back onto the cushions, Jaskier closed his eyes; afraid in case he saw any disgust in Geralt’s eyes, but Geralt was staring down at the bared skin with something akin to awe.

“You’re so beautiful, Jaskier,” he said, brushing his fingertips along the curves of each and every scar he could see. Jaskier opened his eyes, ready to disagree with a self-deprecating joke, but the words were chased from his tongue as Geralt leaned forward to press his lips to the scars within reach. All the while, his finger and thumbs pinched at Jaskier’s nipples, alternating between gentle and harsh; easing gasps from the back of Jaskier’s throat. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier choked. “Please.” His hips squirmed beneath Geralt, unable to rock up against the provided friction. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s cock, hard and waiting just behind his backside. If he leaned back, he would be able to slide it beneath his arse cheeks but he wasn’t the one getting fucked tonight. Not that he didn’t want to feel Jaskier balls-deep in him, but because he wanted Jaskier to feel comfortable, protected, loved for their first time. That and he knew his stamina was greater than the Bard’s, and he didn’t want to overexert the man too quickly. Not without seeing stars first. He chuckled as Jaskier’s hands found his shoulders and tried to push him further down.

“If I’d had known how much you wanted my cock, I’d have said something sooner,” Geralt murmured, shifting in the direction Jaskier wanted but as when the Bard bent his knees and lifted his arse for easier access, Geralt hooked his arms around Jaskier’s thighs so that he could lean forward and capture his cock with his mouth. Jaskier, desperate for touch, moaned loudly into the room; lifting his arms above his head and clutching the pillows there. Geralt couldn’t manage the full length of Jaskier but he worked hard, sucking and groaning every time Jaskier’s head hit the back of his throat. Jaskier’s breathing became gradually more laboured, his stomach quivering. He almost swore when Geralt removed his mouth completely. “Not yet,” he said, “I need you to wait for me. Can you do that?” Jaskier struggled to exhale, forehead coated in a light sweat, but then nodded. “You’re so good for me. So good. Perfect.” He stood from the bed and untied his trousers, kicked off his boots, and stripped down completely. Jaskier was too overwhelmed to appreciate the view fully but he still watched, mouth dry and chest rising and falling rapidly, as Geralt retrieved a vial of something from his first aid pack. Jaskier had seen it before but not questioned what it was, expecting it to be something Geralt needed and not him.

“What’s that?” He asked, pushing up onto his elbows.

“Olive oil,” Geralt replied, climbing back onto the bed. Jaskier’s couldn’t fathom as to why Geralt had some readily available but was relieved he did, his thoughts not having taken into account just how sore it would have been if Geralt had pushed in raw.

“Right, yeah, smart,” Jaskier said, clenching his backside, and Geralt smirked at him. Geralt leaned over and kissed him gently to distract him from overthinking. He knew it wasn’t the first time Jaskier had been with a man but he doubted any of those previous lovers had been as big as him, and he knew Jaskier was a little worried about said fact despite how much he still wanted it.

“How would you like to do this?” Geralt asked, centimetres from his lips.

“Preferably with your cock up my arse,” Jaskier replied, and Geralt growled into another kiss.

“I meant,” he said, after pulling away again,” what position.”

“Oh,” Jaskier muttered, another thing he hadn’t thought of. “Um, I guess, back to chest,” he said, “so I can take you deeper.” The explanation made Geralt growl again but this time it was guttural and raw with arousal. He sat up and watched as Jaskier rolled over and got comfortable again, his knees bent with his spine slanted downwards, face pushed against the pillows. Without hesitation, Geralt gently spanked Jaskier’s bare buttocks and pressed a kiss to the reddened spot afterwards. Jaskier tensed, muffling his moan into the cushion, and gripped the linen beneath his fingers. Extending himself up on his knees, positioning himself at the right height for entry, Geralt lathered his hands in olive oil.

“Are you ready?” He asked, and received a frustrated muffled groan in response which made him shake his head in disbelief. He gently thumbed over Jaskier’s arsehole, and steadied Jaskier with the other hand on his waist when he shuddered. When he pushed one finger in, Jaskier pushed back on him, clenching tightly. “Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt breathed, shuddering himself in anticipation. When stretched, he added another finger, and continued to massage Jaskier’s prostate until Jaskier swore. Geralt knew neither of them would last long but that was alright, they had plenty of time for more savoured, love-making that lasted hours in future. He pressed in and out of Jaskier a few times in tandem with the grip on his own cock, coating it in lubricant. As soon as he was thoroughly covered, he removed his fingers completely, lined up with Jaskier’s arse and slowly pushed the head of his cock in. He groaned loudly, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw as he coached himself through continuingly slowly when all he wanted to do was thrust. Jaskier’s knuckles were white but he was humming into the pillows and when Geralt slowed to a stop, he pushed back, taking Geralt in further. When Geralt could go no further, they stilled, regaining their breath and getting used to the feeling. Geralt leaned forwards to press a hot kiss to the nape of Jaskier’s neck, earning a huff. Jaskier turned his head so that he could breathe properly and whined,

“Geralt. Please.”

Geralt pulled back, taking hold of Jaskier’s hips, and retracted his hips, easing his cock out of Jaskier just to push it back in. They moaned in unison, and within minutes, they were moving rhythmically against one another. The sound of their flesh meeting, slapped against the walls of the room, and Geralt closed his eyes; losing himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s hot, tight, walls clenching and moving against his cock. Both of them were sweating, Jaskier’s hair drenched against his face; Geralt’s back glistening in the candlelight.

“I’m close,” Jaskier whispered, unable to control the airflow reaching his lungs. His knees buckled, lowering them further to the bed and Geralt reached over; his stomach against Jaskier’s back. When his hands found the back of Jaskier’s, he curled his fingers through the Bard’s; pressing his forehead against the back of his shoulder. “Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier whined, body trembling.

“You’re so perfect, Jaskier,” Geralt said, “so beautiful, so tight.” Jaskier cried out as he climaxed and the noise was so perfect, so primal, that it has Geralt coming seconds later; Jaskier’s name on his lips. They panted together for minutes, unmoving, unthinking; just wanting each other near. When Jaskier’s body deflated against the sheets, exhausted, Geralt released the Bard’s hands and slowly rose; running his hands along Jaskier’s back. He pulled out with ease and shifted so he could lie down on the bed beside his thoroughly fucked friend. He smirked at the thought, knowing he couldn’t call him just that anymore. Jaskier weakly rolled onto his side and through glazed eyes, he watched Geralt’s face.

“What’re you smiling about?” He asked.

“The shocked faces of anyone who knows about us,” Geralt admitted and Jaskier closed his eyes, smiling too. “You really are going to have to learn how to fight.” Geralt turned onto his side too and pulled Jaskier close, arm over his waist. “I love you too,” he said chin against Jaskier’s forehead and Jaskier cuddled in closer, smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic. Thank you so much for reading - please give this fic a kudos if you liked it, and if you have time; I'd love to know your thoughts!


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